


The Alfred F. Jones Show

by jojoandpicnic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Existential Crisis, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Truman Show AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-21 18:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 47,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojoandpicnic/pseuds/jojoandpicnic
Summary: For its sixteen year run, "The Alfred F. Jones Show" was the most talked about reality show centering around the eponymous character Alfred, who had no idea his life was being recorded. How did this beloved show end and why did it end the way it did? Tune in with Tino Väinämöinen, your host and narrator, in this award winning documentary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anime Expo Day 1! Happy Canada Day!
> 
> Oh my God, you guys, I am so excited to share this with you, you have no idea. I'm also buzzing with energy because the convention is going to be super duper fun like always. I can't wait for all the cool cosplays and panels I'll see. :)
> 
> Anywho, unlike years of past, I have one fourshot rather than four oneshots for AX. So this fic is complete and will be all published by the fourth. I had a lot of fun writing it. And can I just say I am obssessed with this AU? Seriously, everybody, go break your faves like this because having people doubt their reality is seriously the best. :P If you write a Truman Show AU, tell me because I would love to read it regardless of fandom.
> 
> I hope you like it and don't forget to come back tomorrow for chapter two. Have a wonderul day! :)

   “Fifteen years after its cancellation,  _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ still presents itself as a marker of the height of American reality television.” Tino Väinämöinen spoke into the microphone clearly, not wanting to retake too many times. In editing, images of _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ would fill the screen as he spoke. “Created by the Japanese 'King of TV' Kiku Honda, the show followed the life of its title person through hidden cameras placed all around the fictional town of New Haven. For its sixteen running years, the eponymous Alfred F. Jones had no idea his life was being filmed live for the world to see and be entertained by. As such,  _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ was highly, and still remains to be, controversial.

“What changed the careful world constructed by Honda? How did Alfred F. Jones go through almost two decades of not knowing he was being watched? Given special permission by the man himself, I, Tino Väinämöinen and the rest of the crew here at _Inquisitive Documentaries Incorporated_ invites you to review the definitive moment of the start of the end of _The Alfred F. Jones Show_.”

* * *

 

   In the town of New Haven, everything is peaceful, happy, and beautiful. (That might be stretching the truth a bit, but it comes pretty close.) The summers aren’t too hot and going to the beach is quite popular. The winter isn’t too cold and the outdoor ice rink that popped up every year is quite the attraction. The spring winds are gentle, soft fluttering types of breezes, and the flowers are quite abundant. The autumn winds don’t blow too harshly and the leaves always have a hypernatural crunch to them and there are quite a few piles of them. Everyone in the town is friendly and helpful. It’s a pretty small town, but even so, there are people Alfred hasn’t met. (And he’s met a lot of people; he’s quite the personable person.)

He had grown up there his entire life; he went to school at New Haven Elementary, New Haven Middle School, and is currently attending New Haven High School. He has known all his classmates from a young age, though some had moved away and some had moved in. He’s been going to the same arcade after school since he was nine - Mr. Im’s Arcade over on Lincoln Road. (He is actually best friends with Mr. Im’s son, Yong Soo. The Ims had moved to New Haven when he and Yong Soo were eight. They had come from Seoul, South Korea to make good on the American Dream. Yong Soo said that they were doing pretty well.) His family had been going to the same grocery store since he can remember, owned by the Køhlers. (He’s been best friends with the oldest Køhler son, Magnus, since kindergarten. He, Magnus, and Yong Soo were three of the biggest problem children in their classes, but everyone knew their hearts were in the right places.) He’d seen the old playground equipment at the park be replaced twice. He remembers when the McDonald’s on Washington Way closed down in favor of a Subway. (Thankfully, there’s another McDonald’s on Jefferson Avenue.)

Alfred F. Jones is sixteen years old and he’s beginning to want more out of life. He thinks Magnus and Yong Soo can sense this. Their way of fixing this problem is getting a girlfriend, but to be perfectly honest, he doesn’t want one. He doesn’t know what he wants. (That may not be completely true, but it’s as close to the truth as he’s willing to understand.) If there is one saving grace in his life right now (i.e., not hellbent on getting him a girlfriend), is his cousin/all-intents-and-purposes-brother Matthew. Matthew doesn’t care about interfering with his love life; in fact, he sometimes tells Magnus and Yong Soo to come off it. Alfred is grateful for this, but that isn’t to say that he doesn’t appreciate his friend’s efforts to cheer him up. They just can’t see (or are possibly ignoring) the fact that he wants to be by himself. (Again, that may not be completely true, but he isn’t going to think very hard on that.)

What Alfred really wants to do, more than anything, is to go somewhere. Well, it sounds silly when it’s put plainly like that. There are plenty of places to go in New Haven - the arcade, the library, the park, the movie theatre, the public pool, the cultural arts center, a restaurant, a clothes store, the bookstore, etc. etc. The list goes on, but that’s not the point. All of these things could be found in New Haven. Alfred has already been to all of these places. He doesn’t want to go there any more. He wants to go somewhere else.

A mall. There is no mall in New Haven, but he sees them in movies and reads about them in books, comic or otherwise. He wants to go to one.

Go cart racing. He thinks it would be fun, but there aren’t any here in New Haven.

New York City. It’s on the other side of the country, that much he knows, and he really wants to know what it would be like to stand in Times Square and look up and around and feel so small in the heart of such a big city.

Disney World. God, does he want to go to Disney World. But maybe Disneyland first, since it’s in the same state and it’s the original.

Canada. He wants to go visit Matthew’s dead parent’s graves. He had only met his Aunt Hazel once (Matthew’s dad had died shortly after he was born) and even though they hadn’t had much time together, she still left him the greatest brother-for-all-intents-and-purposes/cousin in the world and he wanted to thank her. Of course, he’s generalizing Canada - she’s buried in Ottawa - but he thinks it would be fun to go around the country.

Seoul. He wants to see where Yong Soo goes every summer (the _entire_ summer) to visit his family. He wants to experience a new culture.

Copenhagen. Magnus had family there and been a few times. He told Alfred that Copenhagen was the best city ever and that all of Denmark was way better than, say, Russia.

The Bahamas. He hears they’re pretty and relaxing.

Hawaii.

Washington, D.C.

Jamestown, Virginia.

Mini-golfing. He’d see it on TV.

London, England.

World’s largest anything.

Sydney, Australia.

Ski boarding. Skiing.

The Griffith Observatory.

Any science museum for that matter. Preferably visit NASA as well.

The Eiffel Tower.

Berlin, Germany.

San Francisco, California.

Go on a goddamn roller coaster. And the not the shitty one the fair had. A real one.

Cairo, Egypt.

Take a tour through Mexico, Brazil, Spain, Ethiopia, the Philippines, Japan - anywhere! He wants to go somewhere! Even if it’s in the same state, just fifteen minutes outside of town! There was an entire world outside of New Haven and it seemed everyone he knew had seen beyond it. It wasn’t fair that he was the only one left out.

Don’t get him wrong. Alfred has talked to his mother about traveling somewhere, but she shoots him down each time.

“We don’t have the money.”

“I have a big project at work right now.”

“During the summer? When it’s hot? I don’t think so.”

“Oh, Alfred, you do know that planes crash, right?”

“Alfred, people die in horrible automobile accidents, like Aunt Hazel.”

“Please, Alfred, your father drowned. There is no way you and I will get on a boat.”

“You don’t like heights. Matthew’s father died falling off a bridge. This won’t work.”

“Drop it, Alfred. Maybe someday, but not now.”

She has an excuse for everything. Alfred doesn’t blame her; the only family she has left is him and Mattie. His father George died one day when he fell of his boat and drowned; Alfred had been ten. Two years later, Matthew’s mom, his mom’s sister, died in an car accident and Matthew had been sent to live with them. When both he and Matthew were babies, Matthew’s dad had fallen off a bridge and died on the way home from work. Her parents had died in a plane crash. The world was set on never letting his mom go anywhere. It’s true - she walks everywhere she has to go. Alfred would find it annoying if not for the fact that he had grown up like that. She hadn’t driven a day since Hazel died; she hadn’t been by the water since George died; she hadn’t set foot on the bridge leading out of New Haven once; she’s never been on a plane. She’s been about as many places as Alfred has been, but more because she and his dad had moved to New Haven in their second year of marriage; the year after that Alfred was born.

In this way, even his own mom has seen more of the outside world than he has.

It’s not fair.

(Don’t get him started on trains. There isn’t a train station in New Haven, but he was sure they could have walked out of town to buy tickets, but of course his mom has a story for that one, too. “You’re father’s mother died on a train,” she had said. He had assumed it had been a train wreck but apparently: “No. A heart attack. But it was still on a train, so we’re not going to get on one.” He’s going crazy.)

Alfred lost count of how many times he had asked to leave New Haven many years ago. It was funny, because when he brought it up, people would tell him a list of reasons to not leave New Haven, but a lot of people he talked to had already been outside of it.

Sometimes he wondered if the rest of the world had been taken over by a zombie apocalypse and everybody except him knew it and that was the reason they didn’t want him to leave, to protect him. (Of course, that begs the question as to why Yong Soo would leave every summer.)

Sometimes he wondered if they wouldn’t let him leave because there wasn’t an outside world at all to go to. (That, again, begs the question where Yong Soo goes every summer. A lot of his theories had a problem with that question, but then again there was technically no reason he shouldn’t be allowed to leave.)

New Haven was a nice place, but he was getting cabin fever.

 

   A hand cuts across his face and he is pulled from his daydreams of going off to a different country. “Earth to Alfred,” Magnus drawls out as he lazily waves his hand in front of his face. “You’re zoning out, man.”

Alfred blinks more into focus. “Sorry,” he says. “What were we talking about?”

Magnus sighs and rolls his eyes. “That Emma totally has the hots for you?” Yong Soo nods and leans forward across the table to be more into Alfred’s personal space. Alfred leans away as he does this; so does Matthew, who is studiously reading a book, at his side even though Yong Soo’s attention isn’t on him.

They were on this topic again. Alfred wishes he can go back to daydreaming, or at least talk about something else. Instead, he laughs uncomfortably and says, “Yeah, right.”

Yong Soo shakes his head quickly. “No, really!” he insists. “She’s coming over here now!”

Alfred takes a deep breath before checking if his friend is actually telling the truth. He turns to look behind him at the rest of the cafeteria and is quite disappointed and anxious to find that he had not been lied to. Emma is indeed making her way across the cafeteria, her eyes locked onto Alfred’s frame. He tries his best not to groan - he doesn’t want to do this today. Or tomorrow. Or yesterday. Or ever again, for that matter. Emma isn’t bad, she really isn’t. She’s lovely, beautiful, sexy even. Her short blonde hair falls prettily above her shoulders, always held back by a headband, and her body is attractive, Alfred supposes. And she’s a sweet girl with only nice things to say and she’s kind to people. But even through all of that, Alfred wouldn’t say he’s attracted to her, that he likes her, because he doesn’t. Not in the way she hopes he does, or his friends assumes he might. Their interactions are exhausting and forced on her behalf; Alfred can’t bring himself to communicate with her on a more intimate level. He doesn’t want to.

He feels there may be something wrong with him. Every other boy he knows would kill for Emma to take an interest in them. Every other boy he knows fights for a girl’s attention, but Alfred can’t be bothered. He doesn’t understand them at all. (Maybe he can, but not in their way and, again, he doesn’t think too hard about it.)

“Hi guys,” Emma says when she finally reaches the table. She looks specifically at him. “Hi, Alfred.”

“Hi, Emma,” he says to be polite. He doesn’t look at her. She takes a seat on his left and crosses her arms above the table to lean on them in his direction. She has a big smile on her face. He wonders if she knows he’s uncomfortable and is making him fidget on purpose. He clears his throat, which is too loud for the quiet that has enveloped their table. “How are you today?”

Her smile grows bigger, showing more teeth. Alfred imagines animal (or, more morbidly,  _his_ ) flesh being chewed thoroughly by those pearly white teeth. Her smile reminds him of a shark closing in on its prey. He wishes he hadn’t asked how her day was at all. “It was fine,” she says. “Thank you for asking. Though, you could have asked me earlier in English class. I sit only two rows behind you and one to the right.”

Alfred gulps and spares her a quick glance. “I didn’t know that.” He did, in fact, know that. School has been in session for about a month and he had known her since middle school. It was hard to not now all the names of his classmates and who was in which class. He also knows that she knows this. He almost wants her to call out his lie. She doesn’t.

“You can come to me anytime you have a English question, yeah?” She inches ever so closer to him, her arms sliding across the table. They press closer together and she pushes her chest ever so slightly outwards. She’s emphasising her boobs, and he knows that. But he ignores it. “Or any other question.” Her voice is like a purr, a sweet one. It’s supposed to be charming, seductive, but it only makes Alfred’s stomach squirm.

He nods. “Yeah, sure.” He knows he’ll never take her up on that. Across the table, Magnus and Yong Soo look pleased. Matthew continues reading, but there’s a frown on his face.

Emma gets up, gently and not so surreptitiously brushing her arm against Alfred’s. “Great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”

Alfred looks up at her. He doesn’t know what to say. He settles on an, “I guess. In English class.”

“For sure,” she says with a grin, her teeth showing again. “Bye, guys.” She gives a small wave to the table; Yong Soo waves back. Alfred looks at the table before he can see her walk off, swaying her hips like she always does around him.

She’s persistent at getting his attention. He finds it annoying because he doesn’t want it.

“Wow, she’s hot,” Magnus says when she’s out of range. Matthew snorts, nose still deep in his book. Alfred doesn’t comment.

After this encounter, Emma’s pesterings become worse as two weeks go by.

“Alfred, why don’t you sit with me today at lunch,” she’d say.

“Alfred, could you help me with this assignment?” She was the one to offer help in English in the first place; why she needed help from Alfred was beyond him.

“Alfred, are you doing anything this Friday? Do you want to see a movie with me?”

It just so happens their English teacher is assigning a group project that day, something Emma has been looking forward to. (“Alfred, you’ll be my partner right?” she asked the day prior. Alfred hadn’t answered her.) He sits, waiting for the bell to ring to get the project over and done with. He doesn’t have a clue what it could be about, only the faint impression it’s on _Romeo and Juliet_ , only because that’s what they’ve been reading in class.

His teacher walks in the instant the bell rings. Alfred gives him his full attention, if only so he can pretend Emma isn’t watching him. “Good morning, class,” Mr. Presley greets, getting a halfhearted response in turn, which Alfred doesn’t participate in. “We’ll be starting our group projects today.” There's a nervous titter among the classroom. “Now, before you pair up, let me explain what you’ll be doing.

“In groups of two, you and your partner will be modernizing Shakespeare’s script, to understand it better. You will have three days of class time to work on it, and then two weeks after that it will be due. I will be assigning your scene. Now, I want this to be school appropriate, you’re turning this in for a grade, but if you feel the need to put in slang terms such as… whatever words you kids use nowadays… ‘ _lol_?’ Or ‘ _omg_?’ That’s fine. No cussing. Does everyone understand?” Mumbles serve as a response; Alfred slinks lower in his chair.

He hasn’t the faintest clue what to do. Shakespeare English might as well be a completely different language for all he can understand of it. Not to mention, he doesn’t even _want_ to think of modernizing it with Emma as his partner. Of course, Mr. Presley has said they can get in their groups now, and Emma has gotten up to come to him, and-

The guy sitting to his right is lazing about in his seat, book open to the right page. He doesn’t have a partner yet and Alfred nearly cries in relief.

Quickly, before Emma can demand his attention, he shifts in his seat to angle away from her and towards the boy. “Hey, do you have a partner yet?”

The boy, whose name Alfred _thinks_ is Arthur, blinks in surprise. “Me?”

Alfred smiles, trying to come off as friendly (which he is). “Uh, yeah. Do you want to work with me?”

Maybe-Named-Arthur hesitates, still looking ever so slightly confused. He glances over Alfred’s shoulder at, Alfred’s guessing, Emma. His eyes flicker back to Alfred and Alfred notices they’re a brilliant shade of green; a brighter green than the green in his hair. Alfred sends him a pleading look and Maybe-Named-Arthur seems to acquiesce. “All right.”

He sighs in relief. “Great!” he says cheerily, maybe a bit too loud, but he can’t be bothered. “Name’s Alfred, nice to meetcha.” He sticks out his hand for his new partner to shake, which he does.

“Arthur,” he says in return and Alfred is quite proud of himself for remembering.

Arthur is a looker, Alfred observes; punk fashion style withheld. His hair is disheveled, highlighted in green, and looking for all the world fluffy. His face is soft set, pale, with a dabbing of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He has two piercings in his right eyebrow, three in his left ear, and two on his right ear. He has a single piercing in his lower lip, and on in his left nostril. On any other day, Alfred would have been too intimidated to talk to him based on his face alone; hideous and over exaggerated eyebrows notwithstanding. He wore dark clothes, mostly black, with a chain hanging off his pants. The pants, Alfred realizes, are skinny jeans that hug Arthur’s body seemingly uncomfortably tight.

He fears he may have stared too long. But when he allows his eyes to travel back up and into Arthur’s, he learns Arthur has been staring too. They realize this at the same time and look away. Thankfully, they are saved from whatever awkwardness that might have entailed by Mr. Presley walking over with their assignment.

Mr. Presley, oddly enough, looks a little nervous and put off. He clears his throat before saying, “Act one, scene five.” He strides off onto the next pair of two, glancing over in Emma’s direction. Alfred looks over at Emma as well and sees her pouting, arms crossed, semi-glaring down at her desk, sitting next to another girl.

Alfred can’t find it in himself to feel bad for her.

Instead he tells Arthur, “I have no idea how to understand Shakespeare.”

Arthur purses his lips and nods slowly. “Brilliant. But understandable. Shakespeare is quite difficult.”

The longer Arthur kept talking, the wider Alfred’s eyes grew. His face lights up in amazement and his smile grows big. “Dude!” he exclaims when Arthur finishes. “You’re British! That’s so cool!”

Arthur, for his part, is bewildered. He blushes a bit and says, “English. Not British. There’s a difference. Now, about the play-”

But Alfred can’t stop once he starts and continues, “You must be really good at knowing what Shakey-Pear is saying then, because, you know, you’re English like he is. I picked a good partner. Right? I’m right, right? Right, Artie?”

“Arthur.”

“That’s what I said.”

Arthur sighs, sounding kind of resigned. He stares at Alfred a bit, like he’s expecting him to continue, but Alfred keeps his lips sealed tight and waits for Arthur to say something. “About the play,” he starts again. “Act one, scene five is when Romeo and Juliet meet for the first time at the Capulet party he snuck into. However, it starts out with a couple of servants talking about the preparations.”

* * *

 

   Tino Väinämöinen sat across from Matthieu Bonnefoy, a former character on _The Alfred F. Jones Show_. He had played Alfred’s cousin, and later thought of as his brother. He was a man of thirty-one, fair haired, with simple glasses perched on his nose and dressed semi casually. The producer had brought him in as one of several interviewees, and was the only one of them who had been allowed to speak on Jones’s behalf.

To start off the interview, Tino’s predetermined lines went as such: “Mr. Bonnefoy, where would you place the beginning of the end, in regards to Alfred Jones’s realization that the world he lived in was fabricated?”

As the scene cut to Bonnefoy, a name-box came up on screen as well reading _Matthieu Bonnefoy_ on top and _Matthew Williams - Cousin/Brother_ on the bottom in a slightly smaller font. His face was composed, showing no emotion. He took a moment to think of an answer before saying, “I think that Alfred had subconsciously known for most of his life. And I say this because he was constantly asking to leave town, even if it was just for the day.” He shifted a little in his seat before continuing. “But if you want a more secure date, then I’d have to say when he first met Arthur. After they met, Emma’s advances towards him went through the roof, and the push to keep Arthur away from him was almost _too_ obvious. I think it was then that the idea that something wasn’t all right really cemented itself in his mind.”

Tino nodded. He kept eye contact with Bonnefoy as he asked his next question. “You mentioned that Alfred was always asking to leave. Why do you think he wanted to? It was something that was brought up a lot in the show - that he couldn’t leave.”

This time, Bonnefoy had an answer prepared and launched right into it. “Alfred saw people around him who could leave, who had left, who had come in. He knew that it was possible for him to leave if other people had, especially the people around him. He would look at all of us and know that we knew what outside of New Haven looked like and that he had been left behind. He wanted to experience what we had experienced and it really frustrated him that he couldn’t.”

“Do you think that meeting Arthur alleviated that wanting, if only for some time?”

“No. I think Arthur was only a distraction from it. If anything, he made the feeling worse.”

* * *

 

   Sometimes life works a little unfairly. Alfred first learns that when he’s seven and his dog, Betsy, died. She was a good girl who provided him many cuddles. The next time he is treated to unfair life - _truly_ unfair life - is when his father drowns. Before then, he and his dad loved going down the water and spending all day there. His dad had taught him to swim and even surf a bit. But he drowned. Alfred always vaguely wondered after that event that his dad's death had been planned in someway, that he was purposefully killed. But no one else seems to think his dad was murdered except him. (But, then again, Alfred had never shared that thought with anybody else.)

George Jones was a good man. His wife, Martha Jones, is a good woman. His son, Alfred Jones, is an okay teenager.

Alfred Jones is an okay teenager because he doesn’t know how to trust completely. He knows he trusts the people around him, but he doesn’t trust them completely. Except for Matthew.

Matthew Williams is also an okay teenager. He has secrets, but who doesn’t? He tries to lie, but Alfred knows how to tell when he lies, so he doesn’t lie to Alfred anymore. Most of the time. Alfred never tells him how he knows that he lies.

And because Alfred knows that Matthew can’t lie to him, he trusts Matthew the most. Even still, Alfred doesn’t trust him with everything.

Sometimes Alfred wonders if even trusts himself with everything. He knows there are things he doesn’t think about. He knows there are things he’s too scared to think about. He knows that he should think about these things. But he doesn’t. Except, maybe he has and he’s denying that, and maybe he’s beginning to think about them more.

Martha Jones is the best mom. She is in Alfred’s opinion. But she’s also the only mom he’s ever had and he can look at other people’s moms and sometimes he thinks maybe she’s not the greatest, but he’s pretty sure everyone thinks that about their own moms. She keeps him safe, she feeds him, clothes him, does everything in her power to make sure he is loved.

“I’ll raise you like a prince,” she said. “You’ll be a prince, my prince. You’ll rescue your princess one day and you’ll treat her like a perfect gentleman.” By the time he turned seven and had been completely enamored by superheroes, she had changed tactics. “I’ll raise you to be like a hero. You’ll be a hero, my hero. You’ll rescue your damsel in distress one day and you’ll treat her like a good hero.”

Alfred had gone along with such musings without much thought, but by the time he was eight, he realized he didn’t want to rescue a princess or damsel. He wanted to fight bad guys and hang out with his friends. Girls had cooties, but boys were his friends. He liked boys. And that went on until he was nine and he realized that cooties were all a lie. His friends started getting crushes on those girls and asking him who his crush was. He hadn’t had an answer. He liked the girls fine, but he had no notion of saving any of them.

His first thought of having a crush had come when he was ten. When he realized what it was, he cut it off, clamped, pounded it down until it was unrecognizable and nonexistent.

Those thoughts remained in that state for six years. He kept them guarded, hardly admitted it to himself. No one else was like him, that much he was pretty certain. If they were, no one else showed it. So he kept it to himself.

It had been six years since then. Six years had passed. There was no use in thinking those thoughts. And yet something had changed.

 

   Arthur Kirkland has eyes Alfred doesn’t want to look away from. It’s a thought that terrifies him. It’s a thought that excites him in a way he hasn’t known too many times before.

They’re a shade of green. Alfred’s pretty sure Shakspeare has a sonnet about them somewhere - he has to, or else Alfred wouldn’t know what to do, how else to explain such beautiful eyes. They are enchanting, almost. They capture attention like no other eyes Alfred has come across. They twinkle at any given moment, even inside and far away from the sun.  They downright glitter whenever Arthur gets particularly invested into whatever he’s saying - and Alfred’s only seen him like that once, but he hadn't wanted the moment to end. He could listen to Arthur for hours if it meant seeing a continuous pool of glittering green eyes. They are such a brilliant shade - jade or emerald; pine or grass; kiwi or lime; crystalline sea water or cooling mint ice cream.

They make Alfred feel good about himself. That may be a bit ridiculous to say, but the way Arthur made Alfred feel is overall a bit difficult to explain. (Or it is actually simple to explain, but Alfred is refusing to find the right words.) Arthur’s eyes exude confidence. They’re warm in a ‘I’ll hug you if you need it’ sort of way. They don’t judge, only offer up silent pick-me-ups. It’s almost like Arthur only wants to _look_ intimidating. It’s almost like he uses his punkish exterior to ward off people who don’t bother to get to know him.

Alfred wants to get to know him. Alfred wants to be looked at by those eyes that welcome, those eyes that don’t care if they land on somebody they like or hate, only to make whoever it is feel like they’re the only one in the world. Alfred wants Arthur to only look at him.

He wonders if he’s taking it too far. By now, he would have dropped it and tried to adamantly look away. But there’s something about Arthur.

He can’t tell what’s different about Arthur. He doesn’t understand why Arthur is breaking through his six year tall wall. What about Arthur makes Alfred not put up his defences but willingly lets them go?

The school day is long over. It’s almost dinner. Yet, Arthur hasn’t left his thoughts since third period. He had barely taken part in the lunch time conversation, or paid any attention in the classes that followed. He’s been staring at his ceiling - had been for the past few hours - without a care for his homework. (Well, he has a small care for it. But he feels reflecting on his thoughts is much more important and he is in no way, shape, or form procrastinating.)

He hears a knock on his door. It’s light and unassuming. It’s Matthew. He knows this without the door opening. For a brief moment, he considers not answering and have Matthew leave him alone. He hesitates for what he feels is too long and he thinks he can _almost_ hear Matthew begin to leave when he calls out for him to come in.

Matthew is a timid person. He always has been. His shoulders naturally slump forward, his head stays down, and he doesn’t talk much in any given situation. The only person Alfred knows of that Matthew consistently talks to and talks a lot to is Alfred himself. Alfred doesn’t understand why his brother doesn’t talk more - if he did, he would have way more friends; Matthew is a kind person after all, with passions and opinions. He’s loads more interesting than he lets on.

As it is, Matthew steps into Alfred’s room without much grandeur. He hovers by the door, looking unsure if Alfred let him in just to be polite. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Alfred parrots. He wonders what Matthew wants to talk about. Alfred wants to stare at the ceiling a little while longer.

Matthew rubs his knuckles on the top of his thighs - he’s uncomfortable. Alfred frowns at him. Why is he uncomfortable? “Um” he says. “Have your homework finished?”

Alfred sits up. “No. Why?”

“Just wondering.” He brings his hands up to rub against each other and Alfred’s eyes narrow. He quickly puts them down again and looks away. “Anyway, your mom was asking about Winter Formal.” Alfred groans and plops back down on his bed, bouncing a little. Matthew huffs out some air that closely resembles a laugh, but Alfred knows Matthew would never dare laugh at _him_. (He would. He does. A lot.) He comes over and sits by Alfred’s hip. “I know. Any plans to go?”

Alfred lifts his head up to stare pointedly at him. “What do you think?”

Matthew pushes his head back down. “I think she’s gonna bother you until you give in.”

“What’re you, chopped burger?”

Matthew laughs and Alfred cracks a smile. “She knows she doesn’t have to try as hard with me.” He looks over at Alfred with eyes that say ‘You know it’s true.’ It reminds him of the last time Matthew gave him that look.

They had been thirteen and Alfred had been trying to skateboard for the first time. He had illusions of being the greatest skateboarder in the world. He wasn’t a fan of actually practising to get better, so he attempted as many tricks as he could right off the bat. Matthew told him it was a bad idea and that he would break his arm if he kept what he was doing up and had given him the same look he was giving him now.

“I’m sure she won’t be that bad,” Alfred says and looks away to stare at the ceiling some more.

Matthew snorts. “Yeah, right. Okay. Well, dinner’s almost done, so get your lazy bum out of bed and try to do your homework sometime.”

“Whatever,” Alfred dismisses with a smile. Matthew leaves and Alfred is sad to see him go. He needs distractions. Especially if his mom is going to bombard him with questions about winter formal.

He had broken his arm after all.

 

   It’s early in the morning. Alfred is half asleep, along with the rest of the school population save for those inhuman few. Yong Soo is a part of those few; he never seems to fall short of energy at any time of day. He used to be unbearable in the mornings, but Alfred and the rest of Yong Soo’s friends had long since grown accustomed to it. In the past, teachers had asked him how much coffee he drank in the mornings, but Alfred has never seen him touch coffee. (Probably for good reason. If that boy had so much as a drop, he would never go to sleep again.) Ironically or not, he was currently discussing with Alfred the effect of caffeine on a human subject. Or rather, he was talking at Alfred without much hope for a response.

“It’s actually really dehydrating,” he says. “That’s why you need to drink a lot of water before and after consuming it. I’ve heard from some family friends that Dunkin Donuts Original Blend Coffee Medium Roast is some of the best coffee you’ll ever have. And it’s just under twenty dollars for a forty ounce bag - what a steal!”

Magnus stumbles over to where they are by Alfred’s locker. His hair is askew, so it’s immediately obvious that he slept in and had to rush this morning. “Hey, guys,” he greets with a wide yawn. “Didja watch the new episode of _Everybody Tolerates Jack_ last night? It’s on ABC at ten-nine central every Wednesday.”

“Yeah!” Yong Soo crows loudly, _too_ loud for Alfred’s sensitive morning ears. He jerks away from Yong Soo a few inches. “I was rolling on the floor laughing!” This makes Alfred frown; _Everybody Tolerates Jack_ has never been particularly funny. He’d seen about the first five episodes at his friend’s insistence, but he couldn’t get into it. They claimed it was one of the greatest shows currently on TV, but Alfred would beg to differ. “What did you think of it, Al?”

Alfred grunts. He still hasn’t told them he isn’t caught up with it even though it was now well into its second season. He knows this because his mother also dutifully watches the show and had watched it after dinner yesterday. Sure, Alfred and Matthew had been in the room, but that was more so for appearances than anything else. He hadn’t really wanted to go back to his room right away. (Procrastination of homework is one of his many talents. And the background noise of the TV gave him the perfect opportunity to think about more things that he usually didn’t think about.)

Magnus and Yong Soo continue talking, but Alfred tunes them out. He’s too tired to think too much and instead stares blankly at the sea of students walking through the corridors around them. A lot of them were half slumped over. Off in the corner of his right eye, he notices a familiar figure walking towards them. He tries not to groan, but he’s pretty sure a little whimper makes it past his lips. Magnus raises an eyebrow at him before he notices Emma as well.

She smiles brilliantly when she finally stops, too close to Alfred for him to be comfortable. “Morning,” she greets brightly. Her gaze lingers on him and she absentmindedly tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear before looking at her shoes. The move seems practiced, fake enough for it to register in Alfred’s sleepy mind as something unnatural. He wonders if she’s about to tell a lie. “You’re looking nice today, Alfred.”

Ah. That’s a lie. Alfred doesn’t consider himself to look nice any day. He knows he should acknowledge her and repay the compliment. It’s hard to, though. Somehow, he manages and it has the expected outcome. Emma’s smile, looking very much like a panther’s today, widens and she places a hand on his upper arm, squeezing a little. She could dig her nails in him, hooking them underneath his skin, and he would probably be the only one to protest. Magnus and Yong Soo seem to be pleased by this ‘progress,’ as Alfred is sure they would call it.

“Really,” she asks. “I didn’t even try that hard today!”

Alfred wants to bang his head against his locker repeatedly. What was the point of complimenting her if she wasn’t going to take it? He settles on briefly glaring at her and shrugging his shoulders a bit to try and get her to release his arm. It only marginally works; she lets go, but then settles her hand lower on his arm. Her green eyes are ravenous in the way she watches him, like he’s prey again. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries again to shimmy away from her, but Yong Soo has somehow inched his way closer to Alfred’s other side, making it impossible to get away without looking rude. When is the warning bell going to ring?

She presses closer to his side. “So, what’re you doing later today?” Her cat eyes look up at him through her eyelashes. It reminds him of two mysterious glowing orbs peering out of a bush on a dark night. His heartbeat speeds up the longer he doesn’t say anything, the longer she expects an answer.

He doesn’t have one. He wishes he did, but he knows he has nothing planned. He’s going home after school and sitting in his room to be bored out of his mind. The way she’s looking at him tells him she knows this. He could lie and say he’s going to the arcade, but Yong Soo and Magnus would see past that; he only ever went with them. He could lie and say he had to finish his English project, but she knew it wasn’t due for another two weeks. He could lie and not give a specific excuse, which is what he’s probably going to end up doing, but he couldn’t find words to say this. He’s scrambling for an answer he doesn’t have and the longer he flounders the more obvious it will be he’s lying.

“We’re going to help prune the garden,” Matthew’s voice cuts clear over whatever Alfred had tried stuttering. He jumps a little and is shocked to see Matthew standing just behind Magnus’s shoulder, rubbing his hands awkwardly together - he hadn’t been there a minute ago. But for now, he’s Alfred’s savior. He sighs in relief. “Aunt Martha asked last night and told me to pass on the information to Al. Thanks for reminding me.”

Emma looks Matthew up and down; he quickly pulls his hands apart and sticks them to his side instead. Alfred holds his breath in anxious anticipation for whatever she’s going to say next. “Oh,” she says. “All right then.” She looks back up at Alfred, her panther grin ever so slightly dimmer, but still as menacing. “Next time maybe.” He nods stiffly as the warning bell sounds.

They say their good-byes, Emma’s hand lingering on his arm until she really had to let go, and he and Matthew head to class in the same direction. “Thanks,” he says.

“For what,” Matthew asks innocently.

Alfred looks over at him and he pretends not to notice, still looking straight forward. He shakes his head fondly and punches his shoulder lightly. “For being the best brother ever.” Matthew finally looks at him and smiles, but he can’t but thinking a small part of that smile is pained.

 

   When third period English comes around, Alfred is much more awake. That isn’t to say that he now feels more prepared to take on any work pushed his way, but he definitely has the energy to at least do some of it. He takes his seat next to Arthur, who doesn’t look up from his notebook, and flips his English book open to the correct page.

Yesterday, he and Arthur had gone through their scene together so Alfred could understand what they were going to be transcribing into modern speech. He had taken notes so he wouldn’t somehow forget. Today, they were going to do what most groups had discussed yesterday - context.

Mr. Presley settles down the students who are talking after the bell has rung. “Today, you’re going to continue working on your projects,” he says. “You’ll get tomorrow as well to work on them in class. After that, we’re moving on, so you’ll have to finish outside of class. Okay?” Enough students nod their heads. “All right. Get started.”

Alfred immediately angles his desk closer to Arthur’s. He waits patiently for Arthur to talk first because, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself, he doesn’t have a clue as to what context they should be putting _Romeo and Juliet_ in. From the groups around him yesterday, he had heard some people were doing World War II Era _Romeo and Juliet_ , and others were doing Civil War Era, one was set on the Titanic, and others still were doing gnomes of all things. That left a lot of options open for he and Arthur to choose from.

Arthur examines him with an unsteady assertiveness. “What ideas do you have?”

His patience sours and his hopeful expression drops into something more disappointed. “Um,” he says. “Um. Maybe, like….” He trails off. He shifts in his seat and sighs. “I dunno. A TV show?”

Arthur’s eyebrows jump up. “A what?” His voice is laced with surprise and something else Alfred can’t quite name.

“A TV show,” he repeats, proud that his first idea off the top of his head isn’t all that bad, “Y’know, like _The Brady Bunch_ or _Gilligan’s Island_. You have a TV, dontcha?”

“Yes,” is his automatic response. He seems to have calmed down from whatever surprised him, but Alfred is still unsure of how to talk to him. “How would you apply a TV show to _Romeo and Juliet_?”

This stumps him. He hadn’t thought this through and now he would have to defend his idea. Taking a deep breath, he began to bullshit his way through. “Well, maybe like competing television stations? Or, no that’s stupid, like a TV show, like…. Maybe something like the news? Interviews for the silly-keys and the rest shot like a normal TV show?”

“Soliloquy,” Arthur corrects. “And while that’s an original idea, I’m just not sure we can pull it off.” Alfred nods, humbled. He knew it wasn’t the greatest idea in the world and he definitely wasn’t all that disappointed to let it go. “What about pulling a common trope from television,” he suggested.

“Like what?” He knew some people were doing a jock and nerd type thing. What other common trope from TV was there?

Arthur thinks a little, his nose scrunching up. It reminds Alfred of a pug almost, cute and vying for attention. After a while, his face relaxes and he sighs and drums his fingers harshly against his notebook. “I don’t know.”

Alfred sits back in his chair and looks around the classroom as if inspiration was somewhere there, just waiting to sock it to him. “Santa Claus and Satan,” he says.

“What,” Arthur squawks.

“Winter and summer.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Veteran and veterinarian.”

“That’s a bit-”

“World War II, civil war, Titanic, gnomes, jock and nerd.”

“Those are all tak-”

“Pillsbury dough boy and Aunt Jemima.”

Arthur pitches into a fit of laughter much too loud than what is acceptable in a classroom and Alfred finds himself joining in. (Laughs are extremely contagious in any given situation, especially inappropriate ones.) They sit there madly giggling and wheezing and so clearly not doing the work they’re supposed to. A couple people around them catch the laughing bug without knowing why.

Mr. Presley comes over looking stern and Alfred can’t seem to sober up as quickly as he should. “Are you two gentlemen doing your work,” he asks, hands on his hips, already knowing the answer.

Arthur is still snickering, but he attempts to answer anyway. “Ye-e-es, sir.” He glances over to Alfred who is stifling his giggles behind his hands and it sends him into another small round of laughter.

Mr. Presley is unimpressed and is giving them the look that says they’re about to be in trouble so Alfred forces himself to sit properly and swallow whatever bubbles of laughter are threatening to pop. “Sorry, Mr. P.,” he says, fighting down a smile. “We wanted to put a joke in our script and I guess it was just too funny.” He coughs to cover up a chuckle. “We’ll get back to work.” Mr. Presley stares them down a bit, Arthur seemingly having gained control again, and decides they won’t cause more trouble and walks away. It takes everything in Alfred’s power to not burst out laughing again and, from the way Arthur’s shoulders are shaking, he’s doing the same.

He’s kind of sad, though. Arthur had a nice laugh.

Once they’ve really calmed down, Arthur clears his throat one last time and says, “In all seriousness, we need context.”

Alfred smirks at him. “We’ve heard my bright ideas, what about yours?”

They have a staring contest. Alfred wins. He thinks he hears Arthur curse under his breath, but he can’t be sure because he hasn’t met many people who curse. It figures Arthur would though; he looks the type, even if that does sound like a stereotype. He looks back into Alfred’s eyes and says with smug determination, “Slytherin and Gryffindor.”

What and what? Alfred’s eyebrows furrow. Those were unfamiliar words, but Arthur’s looking at him like he should know what they mean. He stares a little longer, but Alfred just doesn’t get it. “Huh? What’s a slithering griffin door?”

Arthur’s proud smile falls and he looks like he goes a little pale. “A Slyth- it’s - nevermind. It’s an English thing.” He turns away from Alfred and starts flipping the pages of his text book like it’s the most important thing for him to be doing at the moment.

“Ah,” Alfred voices in awkward understanding. It makes sense, but he feels kind of bad for not getting it. They don’t say anything for a minute or two and he laments not going along with a slithering griffin door and instead questioning it. So, in an attempt to resurrect the flow of ideas, he asks, “Is it, like, an English TV show or something? Or a movie?”

Arthur’s pretty eyes meet his again, looking a little impassioned. “A book, actually,” he says. “Or rather, books. There’s seven of them. And, oh, I guess, they’ve been made into movies.” Alfred leans forward in interest. He prefers comic books over novels, but he does love movies. “It’s about this boy named Harry who learns he’s a wizard and -”

Mr. Presley is suddenly standing over them again, having snuck up on them quietly and without warning. Alfred startles away from Arthur - barely wondering on when they had gotten so close - and avoids Mr. Presley’s gaze. “Are we discussing the play and your project,” he asks them cooly. Alfred wonders why teachers ask these questions when they always already know the answers to.

“Yes,” Arthur says and Alfred tries to look confident. “I was explaining to Alfred why J.K. Rowling's wizarding world would work perfectly with _Romeo and Juliet_ , whether it is between a Slytherin and Gryffindor, or a wizard and a muggle. He hasn’t read the books, so I took it upon myself to shortly summarize the plot.”

Mr. Presley’s eyes narrow and he regards Arthur with barely contained disdain. “Original ideas, please, gentlemen. Do not steal from other sources.”

Arthur looks like he wants to fight and Alfred can’t see that ending well, so he cuts off whatever Arthur’s about to say. “How about just a wizard and a human? No slitherings or whatever. Just a group of magical people against a group of non… magical… people.” Mr. Presley looks like he doesn’t want to agree with him. “Just using Jake Rolling’s thing as inspiration,” he adds quickly. “We can use things for inspiration, right?” Reluctantly, almost _begrudgingly_ Alfred would say, Mr. Presley agrees and leaves them alone again. Alfred breathes a sigh of relief. “So,” he says to Arthur, who is is looking at Mr. Presley with a sour expression on his face. “I guess we’re doing a wizard and a human.”

Arthur drags his eyes away from their teacher and gives Alfred a look of approval. “I guess we are.” He smiles and Alfred finds it’s the easiest thing in the world to smile back.

They spend their remaining time adapting _Romeo and Juliet_ to a world in which wizards exist. Like Arthur had said, it works pretty well.

* * *

 

   They were sitting in front of computer monitors. It was the remnants of the big Sun Room of _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ , where everything had been run from, where all the shots had been called. Sitting at her former desk was Mei Wang, a pretty woman who didn’t look a day over twenty-five but was in truth nearing her forty-fifth birthday. She had been a sound engineer for the show for only three years before it was cancelled. She was chosen over the others for the interview because of her close relation to Kiku Honda. Though he had been almost a decade older than her at the time, they had an “office romance” and had been married a year after the show ended, only to file for a divorce five years after that. She had been the third of five failed marriages Honda had under his belt.

Tino pushed such thoughts away - not every marriage could be a happy one like his - and focused on the task at hand. She was smiling brilliantly at him (or rather the camera), expecting him to start the interview. He cleared his throat and said, “Ms. Wang, as someone who was in the control center rather than out in the field, where would place the beginning of the end?”

The camera cut to Wang who sat up straighter with determination deepset in her brows. The bottom left corner would have a box reading _Mei Wang - Sound Technician_ when production was finished. “That’s difficult to say,” she said, releasing a breath Tino hadn’t known she was holding. “Um, I think I’d place it around the time when Alfred began to think of his friends as limitations.” She made no move to elaborate so Tino asked her to. “By that I mean he realized that Magnus and Yong Soo were holding him back from something, he didn’t know what, but they did. And I think that really frustrated him. Of course, it was my job to catch everything he and others said and to not think too much on his feelings, but it’s kind of hard not to when you’re watching him for hours in a day, you know?”

Tino nodded as if he understood. He looked briefly down to his notecards to read over his question before he asked it aloud for fear of tripping on his words. “As a sound technician, you had to pay close attention to what could be heard and, probably most important, what Alfred heard. Out and about, would he hear things from extras that he shouldn’t have?”

Wang laughed. “Oh, plenty! I didn’t work there for long, as you know, but I’m sure you remember the episode when Alfred first asked about the ‘eff’ word. He heard it from an extra. In my time there, he overheard from a group of extras about Hurricane Walter down in Texas and we had to hastily make a broadcast for the _New Haven News_ so he could watch it on TV when he got home from school. There were many other instances, but I remember those two the most.”

“The cast and crew all had to wear a wireless headset so Honda could communicate with everyone at any given moment. In particular, he would tell the people closest to Alfred what he wanted them to say to him as the conversation was happening. Were there some actors who would not listen to what Honda wanted them to say to Alfred?”

She blew out some hair as if deflating. “Yes,” she said, almost like it was a secret. “Most of the time, they would do as told, but sometimes his mom and dad would change the lines slightly, or the teachers would,  The kids almost never did this, they were very good. However, that Arthur Kirkland almost _never_ listened. Since he was a mindless extra Alfred had never paid attention to until that one day, he didn’t have a headset - he hadn’t needed one, so that first day was really off the book and we hoped for the best.” She leaned back in her chair, looking fondly down at her monitor. “After that, he would continuously say what he wanted to. His defiance was one of the bigger reasons why Kiku was pushing him out of the show - the biggest was that he wasn’t _supposed_   to be in the show to begin with, but Alfred did have a mind of his own no matter how much Kiku tried to control it. To him, it was only a matter of time before Kirkland said something to Alfred that was irreparable.”

“And that time came.”

“It did,” she agreed quickly. There was no denying it. “Other than that, towards the end, Matthieu stopped listening as well. Oh sure, sometimes he would do as told, but he thought he knew what would be best for Alfred and would constantly butt heads with Kiku about the affairs of Alfred’s heart. Between you and me,” she said, leaning in closer, “I was on Matthieu's side.”

Tino raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what side was that?”

“I don’t think it was right trying to force a relationship on him. I truly think if they dropped that aspect, if only for a while, you would not be making this documentary right now because the show would still be running.”

He nodded. She was probably right. He wondered how much of this interview would be cut in editing. But he still had one last question. “That night, before Kirkland was taken away, did either of them have a microphone on them? Do you know what they talked about that night?”

Her smile was bittersweet. “No. And I’m glad for it.”

* * *

 

   Alfred has never wondered why he has the friends he has. He has also never wondered why he does the things he does. He’s never had a reason to. On some fundamental level, he supposes he knows why he has his friends and why he does some things, but he’s never had a reason to reflect on it. Life is sometimes simple like that, but sometimes Alfred wonders if life _should_ be simple like that.

Life hadn’t been simple when his father drowned. ( _Murdered_ , his mind whispers as it sometimes did. _He was murdered and you know it._ He doesn’t know whether or not he should believe it; he doesn’t know if what it says is a lie. If it was the truth, then it would be added onto a list of unexplained things surrounding New Haven.) Life had been hard then. Alfred wonders if that was the reason why people tried comforting him so much to try to bring his life back down to normalcy, to make it simple again. (He doesn’t think it ever became truly simple again.) Life hadn’t been simple then.

His life was verging un un-simple again. Whatever simplicity he had regained after his father’s passing was fading again. The air was different, as cliche as that sounded, but Alfred could feel something coming. Something big was coming and his life would change again. He wondered if someone was going to die.

But through all of that, he thinks he knows what it is. It’s Arthur, or course. A new friend, a new something else. Something new to fixate on and learn everything about.

He became friends with Yong Soo when he had moved to New Haven when they were eight. He had been a loud, eccentric child, placed in the empty seat next to his in the classroom. It hadn’t been the teacher’s best decision, as people were usually kept away from Alfred because he talked so much, but Yong Soo stayed there for the entire year even though they made so much noise. Alfred didn’t think he had changed much since then, only the things he talked about changed. Instead of the “new Transformers toy costing only fifteen bucks,” his spiel became the “new toaster oven just forty-nine-ninety-five.” When they were younger, Alfred found his knowledge useful, now it was bland and overdone. But he wouldn’t be Yong Soo without it.

Magnus he had met a few years before Yong Soo, in Ms. Lauper’s kindergarten classroom. They, of course, sat at the same desk and had made quite a ruckus everyday, but neither of them were moved around and when it was time for a different seating arrangement, they were kept together. It was like this all throughout their school career, even adding in Yong Soo when he showed up. They were fortunate like that. Magnus was a different kind of arrogant than Yong Soo, though. Yong Soo liked to boast about his accomplishments and why people should idolize him. Magnus would exert his machismo on anyone who came too close, demanding they think of him as the greatest person on the planet, and shutting out anyone who denied him. He also had not changed much from elementary school, his childish advice turning into pressuring suggestions.

It had only been natural to become their friends, though sometimes Alfred wondered if that was the best choice. There were plenty of other children, but he never managed to hold one of them down as long lasting friends. He looked around at his fellow peers, even Magnus and Yong Soo, and seemed to be the only one with two friends, a brother, and a bunch of small acquaintances he would talk to in class if he needed something clarified. He wondered when he had become so caged in this arrangement.

What had pushed him to this? Was it chance? Was it him? Was it someone else? Had someone else kept him from becoming friends with a wide variety of others?

It felt like that sometimes. Sometimes it felt like teachers were purposefully keeping him away from other children, or his parents, or random strangers claiming to be another child’s parents pulled them away in the park. He liked a lot of kids and it felt like a lot of them liked him too, but they never stuck around.

Emma had been a surprise, recently. Before, he had never given her much thought and he thought she had done the same for him. If he remembered correctly, they had known each other since sixth or seventh grade when she had been adopted from Belgium. She could only speak really simple sentences when she had first come, and Alfred had no reason to talk to her during that time and help her improve her English. Other people helped her with that. She would squeeze herself into some groups, and they had a few classes together throughout school. And now, now she seemed to be squeezing her way into their table, slithering her way into Alfred’s good graces, constricting around him like a snake would. It felt like all this time from middle school, she had been sizing him up, only to go in for the kill when she no longer felt like playing with her food. The way she talked to him, always had talked to him, made him feel like a mouse: squeaky, powerless and tiny.

For some reason though, he didn’t actually think Emma liked him. Maybe she did, but it wasn’t for _him_. It was like she was being told to like him, to fight for his affections, and the only reason she went along was to gain something - but _what_? What could she possibly gain? Did Magnus set her up? Alfred felt like that could be a possibility. Because Magnus didn’t understand (how could he?) that Alfred didn’t search for companionship like others did. He didn’t get crushes like other boys did.

Admitting to having a crush is hard. Admitting to a crush he shouldn’t have is harder.

It would have been easier if he had a crush on Emma. It would have been simpler.

But life isn’t easy. It isn’t simple.

He hasn’t wondered why he has the friends he does. He hasn’t wondered why he does the things he does, or if the world is being pulled along by strings, or why things go the way they go, or why he doesn’t like girls.

Something has to be simple again. Something has to.

Being Arthur’s friend is simple. Becoming friends with Arthur is the easiest thing that has happened in a long while.

Alfred doesn’t wonder how long it will last. Nothing in life can ever be truly simple. He can feel it. He can feel it in the way Arthur smiles at him, or the way he smiles back at Arthur. He can see it in the bathroom mirror when he fixes his hair, trying to get that cowlick down in under two minutes and failing before he goes to English class. He can see it in the way Magnus and Yong Soo ask him to go to the arcade after school and letting it slip that they had also invited Emma. He can see it when Emma drops hints about wanting to go to Winter Formal. He can see it in Arthur’s pretty green eyes. He can see it in Arthur’s pretty green eyes. He can see it in Arthur’s pretty green eyes.

 

   As much as Alfred is loathe to admit, he and Arthur had yet to set aside time for the project after school since that last day they had worked on it in class. They had gotten through modernizing the servants lines at the party - now weird little creatures called brownies who did things like that because Arthur thought Mr. Presley wouldn’t appreciate them using house elves like in _Harry Potter_. Alfred thinks it had been a good decision, but now it’s Monday again and the assignment is due next Tuesday.

The can’t speak during class, and before class Alfred vainly attempts to improve his appearance before going to class (for some unknown reason, or a reason known but unwilling to acknowledge), so his solution is to catch Arthur after class. Except he’s really nervous, which is ridiculous because he’s now spoken to Arthur on three separate days, a fourth shouldn’t be all that different. But there are butterflies in his stomach fluttering around all class period and no matter how many times he wipes his hands on his jeans, they're damp. His mind is whirling at the mere thought of asking Arthur to meet up sometime after school - or even during lunch! He isn’t picky! But getting the words out might be harder than he imagined.

He nearly jumps out of his chair when the bell rings. He quickly packs up his belongings and sees Arthur finish with his things. Quickly, he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out and it's like his worst nightmare, but thankfully or not Arthur looks up at him in that exact moment and opens his mouth to speak, and he actually uses words.

“Alfred,” he starts and Alfred’s heart does a weird little thump. Honestly, he doesn’t know what’s with him today. “I feel we’ve been putting off our project for long enough.”

Alfred nods quickly, relieved he didn’t have to say the first word, but lamenting he didn’t. “I agree,” he says. “When do you have time? I’m free anytime.” He wonders if that sounded as awkward as he thinks it did.  

“Anytime,” Arthur responds quickly. “We could even meet during lunch period, if you want. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, okay. Um, are you free today?” His heart is beating so fast in his chest he thinks he might pass out from exertion, or maybe anxiety because it feels like Arthur takes a second to nod. “So, today, then?” he chokes out, unsure if what was happening was really happening right now. “Where?”

Arthur is glancing everywhere except Alfred and he can’t remember a time before when he felt so uncomfortable but elated at the same time. “The… library? Here?”

“Sure,” he agrees quickly so this could end and they could get to their next classes. Arthur nods one more time before leaving. Alfred has to take a second to collect himself before he can go to class - he’ll be late, but it was worth it.

He’s going to hang out with Arthur in the library after school. To work on a project. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best hang out (to become friends, that is), but it was the best Alfred has. So he’s going to roll with it.

 

   By the time sixth period rolls around, he’s quivering in his boots. Matthew takes notice.

They’re in French II, Alfred so he has the credits to transfer to a college, Matthew because he wanted an easy A. In Canada, they spoke both English and French, so Matthew had grown up knowing both and, though he hadn’t lived there in years, he still kept up his practice. Before high school, he had attempted teaching Alfred French, but Alfred wasn’t the best student, especially when he didn’t have much use for the language. Not many people spoke it in New Haven.

He feels his brother gently nudge him with his elbow before he’s passed a note. He unfolds it as inconspicuously as he can. _What’s up?_ it says. Alfred quickly writes a response ( _nothing’s up_ ) and waits for a good moment to pass it back.

It doesn’t take that much longer for Matthew to pass it back. _Yeah, sure. Tell me._

Alfred sighs and writes back:  _after class_

The final note reads _Fine._ and that’s that. Alfred crumples up the paper and stuffs it in his backpack before the teacher can notice and goes back to pretending he’s paying attention.

As soon as the bell rings, Matthew is on him. If it wasn’t so endearing how much he was cared for, Alfred would find it annoying. (Okay, that’s a lie, he finds it sorta annoying, but it's the thought that counts, so.) “What’s up,” Matthew asks immediately.

Alfred tries not to show his raging nerves too much. “Nothing, really,” he says because, really, it _is_ nothing. “Tell Mom I’m going to be a while, that’s all. I have to work on my English project.”

Matthew stares at him like he isn’t sure whether or not to believe him but believes him anyway. “Right. Why are you so nervous?”

Alfred really doesn’t have an answer to that so he answers with the first thing that comes to mind. “I dunno. It’s been awhile since I’ve spent some time with people other than you, Mom, Magnus, and Yong Soo. What if I say something stupid?”

Matthew rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’re stupid. Sure, I’ll tell mom.”

“Thanks.” And with that, they depart, leaving Alfred to trudge his way over to the library. With any luck, he won’t say anything stupid and this encounter will go just swell. He, however, does not have that much faith in himself.

There weren’t many reasons for Alfred to enter the school library; thus, he could count the amount of times he had on his hands. He feels like a stranger when he enters, out of place, out of his depth, and uncomfortable to the point where he almost pretends that he’s forgotten why he went in the first place. But he steels his nerves and forces himself to sit at one of the few tables to wait for Arthur. He digs his textbook out of his backpack and his notebook, finds a pencil and starts tapping it anxiously against the hard surface of the table. He’s asked to stop not too long thereafter and resorts to chewing it. There are a few dents in it by the time Arthur finally steps through the door and immediately spots him; he smiles as he sits down and gathers his own things from his bag.

Once his materials are set up across the table from Alfred, he says, “So. Ready to start?”

“I guess,” Alfred responds, opening up the textbook to the right page. Shakespeare is still one of his least favorite things to read, but he has to get through it if he wants to continue passing English. And, on the best possible upside, he doesn’t have to do the assignment on a ‘romantic’ play with Emma.

Arthur pulls out their previously written script with the brownies and their lines so they could continue translating. The next section to update is with Lord Capulet, Juliet, and blah blah blah. A bunch of people that Alfred just doesn’t care about. Cappy is greeting his guests and that’s all that really matters, but, _dang_ , does Pappy-Cap really have to be so long winded about it? Then Tybalt wants to kill Romeo, but Papa Cuppa says no, and on and on and on. It had been decided earlier that the Montagues would be the non-magical family for the added sake of Loco Puke-ulet not wanting T-Bolt to go and kill Romie because he was just a powerless, supposedly polite kid who was just born to the wrong family.

“He dies, right,” Alfred checks because he isn’t sure he remembers anymore. “Room-boom kills Tibbles, right? Or does somebody else? That sucks. Balto shoulda killed Rom-com when he had the chance.”

The response he gets is less than desirable. Arthur stares at him with great befuddlement, eyebrows drawing together tightly and mouth slightly agape. “I have _no_ clue who you’re talking about.”

Alfred frowns and runs over his words in his head. “Oh,” he says lamely. “Right. Does Romeo kill Tybalt?”

“Yes,” Arthur says slowly, looking at Alfred weirdly. “Mercutio is killed by Tybalt, so Romeo gets revenge.”

Alfred nods down at his book, trying his best to remember reading that part but fails and gives up. “Who’s Mercutio again?” Arthur sighs and says they should get back to their work. He stares at their script so far and wonders how they accomplished so much in the time he was effectively zoning out. He notes there were a bunch of lines cut, just for necessity’s sake. Wilburt Shaman Pier wrote a lot of fluffy lines wholly unneeded for a modern audience. He never thought they would actually get there, but here he and Arthur were - translating Ro-bro and Jewelry’s lines.

 _TYBALT_. Arthur has written on his paper: _I will have patience now. Killing with kindness first, only to turn to poison later. (He exits.)_

_ROMEO. (Taking Juliet’s hand.) This hand of mine is unworthy to hold yours and yet my lips are worthy enough to use._

Looking down at the play, Alfred starts trying to decipher what’s said next. He wonders how helpful he’s being - he feels like all of those fanciful words are going straight through his head without stopping to be understood. They’re flirting, that much is obvious. Momo wants to kiss her, Jukebox says… no? Maybe? Something about saints and palms, but does all of that mean ‘no?’ And they keep talking until -

“What,” Alfred asks himself, staring at line 102 with immense confusion. “What does that…? How does…?”

Arthur looks up from his own copy of the play. “Problem?”

On the one hand, he doesn’t want to look like a fool, on the other hand, he feels like he passed that along time ago. Still, he’s hesitant to share. He stares at Arthur for what he feels like a second too long before saying, “Yeah. Um, this line,” he points to it, “‘Let lips do as hands do?’ What does that even mean? Lips don’t do what hands do. That’s kind of a really bad pickup line. I mean… you know?”

Arthur clears his throat and shifts closer to him. “Well, see here, they’re holding hands.” His pretty green eyes glance from the book up into Alfred’s and Alfred almost forgets what they’re doing for a second. He’s looking at Alfred like that was all the explanation that was needed, but Alfred doesn’t have a clue on how that clears things up. “Get it,” Arthur asks.

Alfred takes a deep breath and says, “No.” Arthur sighs and drums his fingers against the table. He looks like he’s contemplating something, but he makes his mind up pretty quickly - or that’s what Alfred thinks because he’s suddenly sitting up straighter and looking Alfred in the eyes. Slowly, gently, Arthur takes a hold of Alfred’s hand and grasps it firmly like he wants to make a point.

Any cohesive thoughts he might have left fly out the door and into a flurry of whirlwinds. Arthur is still maintaining eye contact, his pretty green eyes looking deep into Alfred’s without hesitance or nervousness; they’re unwavering, intelligent, super, _beautiful_. They steal his breath and he finds he has to look away. That helps him breathe easier, but now he’s staring at their conjoined hands and just like that a slew of thoughts roar and stampede through his head.

The hand holding his is soft. It’s warm and tender. It feels like his hand is receiving a hug from another hand and isn’t that just the most _sane thought_? Alfred doesn’t want to let go and that thought just sends a tingle down his arm to his fingers telling them to clutch tighter - he wants to die of embarrassment when they do just that, fluttering a little bit as the tingle sweeps through them before settling a little bit more secure around Arthur’s hand.

His brain is short-circuiting so hard that it takes him much too long to remember what this demonstration is for. But he still doesn't _understand_ so he tears his eyes away from their hands and back up into Arthur’s eyes, but he can’t even do that because then he’ll be caught on them again, so he lowers them to stare at Arthur’s lips and that’s just a _mistake_ because Arthur’s licking his lips (and, jeez, his mind flickers out of existence for a second there as a swarm of butterflies invades his stomach), so he gives up and looks back down at their hands-

“ _Oh_ ,” Alfred chokes out. He feels his face get warm, all the way to the tips of his ears. His palm is probably getting sweaty but he can’t bear to take his hand back and Arthur’s still staring at him.

He clears his throat and Alfred’s eyes flicker up quickly to see Arthur’s own face grow a little pink. “Get it now?” He gives the tiniest of nods and Arthur responds by giving his hand a small squeeze - as quick as anything - before pulling his hand away.

Alfred’s hand grows colder. It gives him an empty feeling as he tracks Arthur's hand as it makes its way back to his lap. Arthur isn’t looking at him anymore, instead he’s gazing at the shelves of books as if they are the most interesting things on the planet. His cheeks are still pink and in that Alfred finds a smidgen of comfort.

It takes him a while to really get his heartbeat slower and regain some semblance of regular breathing, but he still sounds out of breath when he says, “That’s actually not a bad pick up line.”

“It’s not the worst,” Arthur concedes with his own breathless chuckle. “And she has a great comback after he kisses her, too.”

“Oh, really? What?”

He smirks at him. “She says he kisses by the book.”

Alfred bursts out laughing and Arthur joins him, both trying to keep it down so as to not to disturb the other last two people in the library and the librarian. “What’s it gonna be in our script,” Alfred inquires. “Kiss by the spellbook?” That sends them into another fit of laughter before they decide to call it a day.

 

   The first thing he notices when he goes home that day is that the trash has been taken out. Usually, that’s his job. He goes over and inspects it and sees a hard rectangular shape pressed against the part of the bag and pokes at it wondering what it could be for merely a second before it clicks in his head - he knows what it is. He stares hard at it for a few moments before blowing all the hot air in his head out - the air that had been hot a minute earlier from incredible blushing excitedness turned quickly into anger and frustration - and unties the garbage bag to pull his book out.

Like all the times before when his mother had tried to throw it out, it’s now smudged with ill, sticky, and slimy stains that will take an hour to wash away and days for the rank smell to dissipate. It’s like a routine now, every few months. Routine as it may be, he didn’t like it and held on to the hope that his mother would stop selfishly doing this.

He brings the book inside and goes straight to his room. He sets it down gently on his desk before going back out to get a rag; however, he is stopped by his mother in the kitchen.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at some tea, reading a newspaper that Alfred is sure he saw her reading this morning. “How’s your project coming along,” she asks, not sparing him a glance.

“It’s going well,” he says. “What’s new in the paper?”

This makes her pause in her reading to give him a dull look. “We both know you aren’t interested in the news. But, on the off chance you really _are_ , then the local pet shelter is asking for volunteers. Maybe you could go help out.” She fixes him with a look that screams _It’ll help you get into college_. He isn’t a fan of that look.

“Okay, yeah, sure,” he hums noncommittally, hand tightening around the rag in his hand. He starts to turn away to get on with the job, but is stopped again when she calls his name. He turns back with a fake smile and a “Yeah?”

She sets down her paper and heaves a heavy sigh. When her gaze lands on him again, it’s full of frustration, worry, and impending demands. “Must you keep pulling that thing from the garbage?”

He frowns and hopes his face accurately conveys how much discontent he’s feeling in that moment. “I dunno,” he says petulantly. “Must you keep throwing it away? It’s mine.” He crosses his arms and turns his head to glower at the wall instead, not wanting to see that sadness in her eyes.

“I’m just worried about you. You need to move on, Alfred.”

That makes his mood fouler. It’s moments like these that he wished it was socially acceptable to scream in frustration whenever someone wanted to. “I _have_ moved on,” he insists. “It was _six_ _years_ ago. Is it really that bad of me to want to keep some pictures? Am I not allowed to look at pictures?” He looks back at her and sees her unhappy concerned grimace has been etched in deeper to her face, making the few wrinkles she has more defined. “I’m forgetting his face, Mom. I don’t like that.”

She sighs again and he thinks he sees the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I know, baby; God, do I know. I have no problem with the pictures - I look at them, too. But, Alfred, _news articles_? His _obituary_? You want to remember your father like that? Remember his death like that? Keep it all nicely in a scrapbook and say everything’s okay because it also has happy pictures in there?” His eyes had shifted down to the floor and he didn’t feel like moving his head back up. He didn’t have the strength to pretend like he was the stronger one in this situation. His eyes were beginning to burn and he hated himself in that moment. “Is that really moving on? Re-reading those news articles about his death every Saturday is _moving on_?”

Alfred’s hands clenched themselves into fists and he swallows hard. She isn’t supposed to know he did that every week. She isn’t supposed to _know_. Sure she had caught him a few times, but he never told her that he had done the same thing the week before, and the week before that, and the - “I don’t do it every-”

“Do not lie to me, Alfred F. Jones.”

He clams up, his attempt to rectify the situation drying up on his lips. He squeezes his eyes tight and concentrates on willing the tears threatening to fall away.

She sighs once more and Alfred knows that this conversation won’t last for much longer. His mother works in sighs of three. It was just one of those things that never changed and almost seemed robotic, formulaic. “Your father would have wanted you to be happy, not hung up on his passing. He wouldn’t have liked this, Alfred. It was tragic and you were young, but there’s nothing you can change no matter how many times you read those articles and wish they said something different. I know it’s not fair of me to throw it out, but I hold onto the hope that one day that it’ll stay there because that will be the day that I know for sure you’re going to be okay.”

“I am okay,” he says thickly, though he knows she isn’t going to believe him no matter how many times he says it. “You shouldn’t worry so much.”

She gives him a small, wistful smile. “I’m your mom. It’s my job to worry.” He shakes his head at her and leaves the room; she doesn’t stop him.

When he sees the book sitting on his desk, he ignores it in favor of laying down on his bed to stare endlessly at the ceiling. It could wait a few more hours to be cleaned. It wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of Anime Expo! Oh my God you guys I had a blast yesterday. I learned to dance to iKon's B-day AND, you won't believe, got to see Kubo-sensei and Yamamoto-sensei live in person (for those that don't know, they created Yuri!!! on Ice). It was nothing short of incredible.
> 
> Anywho, I asked my dad how often to wax surfboards and all he really talked about was how sand got everywhere. True story. Wax your surfboards, kids, and don't worry when sand gets in the wax. :) I hope you like this chapter and have a remarkable day! :D

   They were at a park for this next interview. Supposedly, it was to show off common American life and these next interviewees were merely fans of the show. The three of them had been selected out of hundreds of applicants based on age, education, and knowledge of the show. Their names were Eduard von Boch, Yekaterina “Katya” Salenko, and Antonio “Toni” Fernandez Carriedo.

Mr. von Boch was the youngest of them, fifteen at the time of the show’s cancellation, and looked quite bookish. He was a historian and worked part time as a manager at a local museum. Mrs. Salenko was the oldest of them, twenty-three at the time of cancellation, and was significantly pretty. She worked as a school teacher and had two children of her own. Mr. Fernandez was right in the middle, a young man of nineteen at the time of cancellation, with wildly curly hair and a charming smile. He was an average entrepreneur who ran his own gardening store and was looking to expand his business in the near future. They were all very different from each other, but the studio had wanted varying opinions.

Tino didn’t have time to dwell on each individual. He had to focus on the overall result of this interview. With that thought in mind, he went right to it as soon as the cameras were in place. “How did _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ impact your lives?” Each would answer individually, with their title cards being their names and _Fan_. It was plain, but there was no other reason for anything more to be added.

Mr. von Boch was the first to answer. “Growing up, since I was only a year younger than Alfred Jones, it was just something I and my family would watch,” he said. “I related to him, which made me want to keep watching. Alfred’s relatability is what really has me looking back on those memories fondly. The show was infinitely more relatable than those other reality TV shows that were obviously scripted. But he was there on TV, doing his own thing, being a real teenager. For me at least that was a big self-confidence promoter. If Alfred could fall on his butt and laugh it off in front of millions of people, why couldn’t I in front of twenty?” Next to him, Mr. Fernandez was nodding along like he agreed, which he might as he was also considerably close to Jones’s age.

Mrs. Salenko was next to speak. “It’s true that I remember watching the show when I was younger with my family,” she started, “but I was little. I didn’t understand, couldn’t sympathize, with how this boy must be feeling. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized what an impact he had made on me and millions of people. It also wasn’t until I was older, towards the end of the show, that I realized the unfairness the show presented itself with. My entire life, I had been paralleling myself with Alfred Jones and his personality, his friends, his life - how normal it was and that I wanted that normalness for myself. But when I began to understand what normal _was_ , I began to understand that his life wasn’t normal. It was a big revelation for me to realize that I didn’t approve of such a blatant and large scale invasion of privacy. It made me reflect on my morals and what I considered to be right and wrong.”

Last was Mr. Fernandez. Before he even opened his mouth, Tino could tell he wouldn’t shut up and would have to cut the man off at some point if his answer _truly_ rattled on. “For me, _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ was just another show. I related to the characters as much I would with any other show and I didn't think too much on the moral credibility of the main aspect of the show. It was a show I would turn on after school if there really wasn’t anything else to watch, but I would always watch the week recaps on Saturdays. I didn’t like all that extra time in between, you know? People’s lives are boring unless you cut out the important bits, so the week recaps were the majority of what I actually watched. Sometimes I would watch when he went to the arcade if I had a bad day - that would always cheer me up. As in terms of impact that the show had on my life, I feel it had as much impact as it did on any other average watcher. It definitely had a hell of an impact on pop culture - if you weren't watching _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ , then you really didn’t know any of the jokes your friends were telling each other, or why they're wearing what they are, or any argument they’re having. And just like any other watcher, the real impact came with the finale. There’s no way that didn’t impact anybody because _that’s_ when everyone, _everyone_ , started talking. _That’s_ when you found out if your friend had no qualms with privacy, or if they thought it was inhumane, or whatever. Because before that? The only people that would talk about it were in the same club - that, uh, that, that… Alfred Wants Freedom Club? After that finale, if you suddenly weren’t apart of that club, you were ostracized. I lost a lot of friends like that; that was the greatest impact, really, finding out I was hanging out with all the wrong people.”

Tino cuts him off there. Mr. Fernandez looked like he had a lot more to say, but he had said his bit, and his bit contained a lot of information (and a lot of hand gestures), necessary or not. For example, what he had called the “Alfred Wants Freedom Club” was actually the Association Against Honda Productions, or the AAHP, which had been created around the same time of the show’s start to protest the invasion of privacy the then infant Alfred F. Jones would experience if the show was allowed to air. The show did air, and so the organization stuck around, protesting the entire time, gaining numbers as it went, but never enough to really bring Honda Productions down until that final day. Tino was actually going to interview the founding members/co-presidents at a later date and get their opinions on the entire fiasco. But now was not the time, so he continued with the interview.

Tino assessed them before asking, “Did you think the show was sustainable? How long do you think the show could have lasted had it not ended?”

“Until his death,” Mr. Fernandez responded without missing a beat. The other two nodded their agreements without much fuss.

Mr. von Boch pushed up his glasses. “That was the intention, after all,” he said. “For it to last until his death, and maybe even beyond with his children. Maybe they wouldn’t have continued on with the budget to livestream it all day, everyday, but at least the weekly recaps. It could have lasted forever.”

Mrs. Salenko did not add anything. Tino wondered what was going through her mind, but asked them his final question. “When did you realize the show was going to end?”

Interestingly enough, none of them had a ready answer. They all paused and sat there silently, thinking back to the show and trying to pick a particular scene that had potentially clued them in to the end.

“I,” Mr. Fernandez sighed. He shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say. “I didn’t realize it was ending until that night when Alfred came home. I’m a horribly oblivious person, but I just remember my friend texting me, saying Toni, you’ve gotta turn on the Alfred Show. Shit’s about to go down. And you know, shit had gone down a few weeks earlier, so I couldn’t even begin to understand what was about to happen. Looking back, yeah, there are a lot of clues to the end, but I hadn’t seen any of them until it was over.” He looked to his side at the other two, signalling that he was done talking.

Clearing his throat, Mr. von Boch sat up straighter and said, “I realized the end was near probably around the time Alfred went to Mr. Franklin’s house for the last time.” Mr. Franklin had been a recurring character on the show as Alfred Jones’s father’s best friend. Tino accepted this; many people shared Mr. von Boch’s opinion that that discussion Jones had had with Franklin as a marker for Alfred’s big revelation.

Three sets of eyes turned on Mrs. Salenko, who had a peaceful, pensive smile. “ _Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do as hands do_ ,” she recited, voice quiet. Tino recognized it as a Shakespearian quote, particularly _Romeo and Juliet_. He had an idea of where she was going with this. She remained quiet for a moment, staring at her hands in her lap, before taking a breath and continuing. “That first day he and Arthur Kirkland worked together in the library, I understood he had a crush. And I understood that the TV station would not approve of it. And I understood that if something didn’t change, then that boy would be unhappy for the rest of his life. And if he was unhappy, then there would be no show.” Her gaze lifted from her hands up into Tino’s eyes. “I hadn’t realized the show would end, but something changed, and that’s all that matters.”

* * *

 

   New Haven is unchanging. It is thickheaded and unwilling to open its ignorant eyes. Nothing ever happens in New Haven, or at least that’s what its citizens want to think.

Accidents happen, though. Clearly accidents happen. But they aren’t thought of much, rather they are forgotten quickly even if someone got hurt or lost their life. The accidents are never used as a cautionary tale, nor are they used to set examples. Things just simply happen and everyone is expected to move on with their lives.

On TV, people never simply move on after an accident. This leads Alfred to believe that the people in books, television, and movies are all a bunch of overdramatic crybabies. However, he finds himself in them. He _found_ himself in them when his father died; the people on TV react the same when someone they love dies - sobbing, wailing, angry messes who tried hard to move on and keep going down their path while having that single death keep them back and hold them there as they struggle as hard as they might to push through it. Alfred’s mother had acted like that for about a month or two.

But that was just it. She acted like that. It might seem selfish, but it didn’t feel like her pain was as real as Alfred’s. As severe, as deep. She missed her husband, but she didn’t at the same time. She could live without him, while Alfred didn’t know how he could live at all. His dad had always been there for him, teaching him things, like swimming and surfing and even taught him basic CPR “for the future if you ever need it. I hope you don’t, but just in case.” Alfred had barely even been old enough to put enough force behind his pumps as would be required on a real, live human. He taught Alfred how to fish, the basic mechanics of a boat, how to notice if a person is drowning - “It isn’t loud and obvious like it is on the big screen. It’s quiet, deathly, serious.” He taught Alfred everything there is to love about the water, the ocean, and everything in it, every life it held, and how precious they all are and how much the humans as a collective had to protect it.

Accidents happen. Alfred’s father drowned. On a boating trip, to fish, with his best friend Mr. Benedict Franklin, who was also an experienced swimmer. The weather had gotten a bit out of hand and his father “fell overboard and was pulled beneath the waves.” Alfred’s father, a man who spent most of his life by the water, on the beach. Alfred’s father could not swim back to the water’s surface, nor could Mr. Franklin throw him the life preserver, nor could anything have apparently changed in this accident to make it less plausible. Alfred’s father, New Haven’s most trusted lifeguard for just over a decade drowned in the water he had loved so dearly.

Ms. Ross next door had called George Jones’s death “poetic irony.”

Alfred has never been too fond of poetry.

The funeral was over as quick as his father’s death. Alfred felt like he had been drowning in his tears as his father’s body was drowned in dirt.

New Haven had not cared. New Haven moved on. Alfred could not. He cut out every newspaper article he could find about the accident, and his father’s obituary. They were the final remaining traces of his father and he would be hard pressed to let them go. His mother did her best to purge George Jones from the house. She didn’t get rid of everything - how could she? - but his clothes went, his books placed into storage; she almost sold his surfboard. When Alfred had found out about that plan, he begged her and begged her to keep it. It now resides in their garage, in the back corner, dusty with disuse for the past six years.

Alfred has thought many times about taking it down to the beach and riding it for hours and hours. He has been thinking about it more and more ever since the start of high school - he remembers going down to the beach with his family and his friends on the weekends, or just after school when there was no homework, and just swimming in the ocean, and surfing, and building sandcastles. He misses that. But everytime he gets the courage to touch the damn surfboard, the images of crashing waves and swooping currents, dragging a person down and down and down, down farther than they should go, flood his mind and he doesn’t pull it off of its shelf and doesn’t take it down to the beach. He hasn’t been to the beach in almost a year; he only goes when he’s invited and that isn’t often.

But he thinks about it. He thinks maybe one day he will have the courage to do it. He hopes he will.

If New Haven won’t change, he will. He has to if he wants to leave.

 

   Somehow, Alfred earns an A on the English project. Well, it’s not that surprising - Arthur had done incredible work on modernizing it, but just the exciting idea of receiving an A on an assignment will never dull, especially when Alfred is such an average B/C student. He almost feels like he doesn’t deserve it, like he hadn't done enough work, hadn’t helped Arthur enough with the script, but Arthur says he did just enough. Alfred will take a small miracle when he's offered one.

He boasts about it all day and his friends, like the good friends they are, tell him to shut up after the sixth time. They say this with a smile, of course, and Alfred grins back because he knows he’s being ridiculous, but he’s really happy. It’s also Friday which means a trip to the arcade, so basically his day couldn’t get any better.

When the final bell rings, he is up and out of his seat faster than his eyes can keep up with, which would have made him dizzy if not for the fact that his mind stayed focused on moving his feet out the door. He makes it about five feet away towards his locker before he remembers Matthew’s supposed to be with him, but he shrugs and keeps going. They’re going to see each other at home anyway.

He shoves his books in his locker haphazardly and bangs it shut. As he makes his way out of the school towards their determined meetup place to start actually walking to the arcade, he spots Arthur slowly shelving his books in his own locker, looking for all the world like a beautiful wall(locker)flower.

He’s like a magnet. A very attractive magnet if Alfred’s feet are anything to go by, dragging him away from his path until he’s standing before Arthur without any words or reasons as to why he’s there.

Arthur looks up at him with his pretty green eyes, curiosity so evident that Alfred’s palms begin to sweat instantly because his brain finally catches up with his feet and he realizes that Arthur will expect words and a reason.  He clears his throat awkwardly and says, “Hi.” Gosh, that was dumb. He sounds like an idiot and Arthur’s probably mentally making fun of him.

“Hi,” Arthur echoes, closing his locker softly. He doesn’t look away from Alfred’s eyes, not that he would want him to, but it’s also making it ever so slightly harder to remember how to form grammatically correct sentences.

It takes him ten seconds too long to remember how to speak. “We got an A thanks to you.”

He smiles softly and Alfred’s heart skips a beat. “You helped. We deserved that A, if I do say so myself.”

Alfred chukles. “Yeah,” he agrees before his mind is assaulted with the most brilliant (or stupid, depending on how you look at it) idea. “Hey, do you have any quarters?”

Arthur’s soft smile is replaced by confusion. “Quarters?” He reaches his hand towards his pants pocket and pats it. They hear the telltale jingle. “Yeah, why?”

Alfred smiles brightly. “Wanna come to the arcade with me and my friends? I’ll buy you a couple games as a thank you.” Arthur looks likes he might say no, so he adds, “Please?” That seems to do the trick and he relents. Alfred tries not to let on how excited he is.

Magnus and Yong Soo are no where near as thrilled, but they accept Alfred’s words and act friendly, but he stills sees them side-eyeing Arthur like he’s about to scream at the top of his lungs about murder or something equally as bad. It makes Alfred’s insides squirm to think that his friends won’t get along with Arthur, because with each passing day - regardless of how much time they’ve actually spent together and the lengths of their conversations - he’s considering Arthur as his friend more and more. (And while that may be true, there's another layer to Alfred’s feelings towards Arthur that he’s pointedly ignoring and he knows it. Now isn’t the time.) He wants his friends to get along, so that’s something he has to remedy. Hopefully, the arcade will be the first step towards that.

Mr. Im greets them with a smile. Alfred’s always considered him to be generally the coolest adult he knew - he owns an _arcade_ for Pete’s sake! _And_ gives them free games for every eight they buy. Except for Yong Soo, that butt gets to play free all the time (so long as he keeps up with his chores and homework, that is), but still, he and Magnus are very thankful for the friend discount they get.

Arthur, for all his usual self-confidence and intimidation tactics, looks out of place and unsure as to where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing. It’s like he’s never been to the arcade before, which is ridiculous, because this is literally the best place in New Haven. Though, thinking about it, Alfred is pretty sure he’s never seen him here before and Arthur doesn’t exactly strike him as the play video games type of guy. He’s more like read Shakspeare and Harry Porter books kind of guy - which he is, despite his eccentric, in-your-face, alarming appearance. He doesn’t look like the type of guy to read books at all, but Alfred knows that Arthur likes Harold Peter and his seven books, which means he must enjoy reading, so of course he doesn’t know what to do in an arcade.

He slides up next to him and says, “Have you ever played _Invasion of the Curroes_?” The ever so slightly, minute shake of Arthur’s head has him grabbing his arm and pulling him towards Alfred’s favorite game in the entire arcade.

The game objective was simple. Defeat the invading alien race from Planet H-72 who call themselves the Curroes. They’re little green things with triangle-shaped heads, four arms, and a single leg. They had three eyes and blue space ships with which they shot out red lasers at your own silver rocket ship. Alfred had originally liked the game solely for the aliens - he likes to believe there are other intelligent life forms out there - but the skill required to beat the little guys roped him into playing game after game after game. He had the highest score recorded on the console, but he still hadn’t made it to the last mothership. One day, he knew he would make it, one day.

Very quickly, it came to Alfred’s attention that Arthur was really bad at video games. Extremely bad. Terribly, horribly, awfully bad. After teaching him the basics, he watches Arthur play with a wide smile that grows smaller by the second due to the many different ways he stumbles and fumbles through the buttons and maneuvers, even if there are so few for the first levels. Alfred hadn’t known before that here were so many ways to play a game so poorly. When Arthur dies for the first time, Alfred gets over it quickly and starts a new game - after all, Arthur’s a beginner. The second time is understandable, too, but the third time he dies Alfred stops and wonders if Arthur has any hand-eye coordination at all. With each new game, he hadn’t been getting farther than level three or four.

But, Alfred notices with his own sheen of pink cheeks, he is growing passionate - cheeks growing red, lower lip being bit in concentration, eyebrows furrowed together in frustration. Alfred still has yet to play a game of his own, but he’s so very engrossed in watching Arthur struggle.

The part where he keep dying is coming up and Alfred so desperately wants to see Arthur succeed, but with the way his movements are slowing, Alfred knows he won’t make it. He sighs in disappointment, eyes falling from their brief time on the screen down to Arthur's hands, flying too slowly and inexpertly over the console. He keeps fumbling and pressing the wrong buttons, the one on the joystick seemingly picking random directions to thrust in. Alfred’s eyes glance back up to the screen and recognizes immediately which direction is the right direction to move in, but Arthur doesn’t. He looks back at the hand on the joystick. It would be so easy to cover it with his own and help Arthur win the level. So easy. Alfred’s breath hitches at the thought and for those few nanoseconds tries to stave off the temptation but succumbs to it all the same. His hand darts out at the last possible second, firmly settling on Arthur’s, pushing it to the left side. The rocket ship on screen narrowly avoids the last UFO and the level ends.

Both of them stare at the screen longer than necessary, especially when it’s about to start the next level. Alfred knows he should take his hand back - that he shouldn’t have even stuck his hand out - but he’s reluctant to and Arthur isn’t saying anything or moving away or _anything_ and neither is Alfred. Until they glance at each other, Arthur’s pretty green eyes landing on his blue ones in a whirl, and the moment is over and they startle away from each other in the same moment, their hands retracting.

The game also ends in that moment, the rocket ship being blown to smithereens.

Holding Arthur’s hand for that brief instant in time had felt unreal, but made him feel so alive at the same time. It reminded Alfred of surfing for some inexplicable reason - that moment between standing on the board cutting through the water and the moment a miscalculation in his balance throws him down into the waves. But even that feeling, that old six year old feeling, didn’t hold a flame to the heart pounding, butterfly inducing feeling he just experienced.

They’re staring at each other and he’s pretty sure his heart's going to burst. Arthur’s cheeks are a faint pink and, _wow_ , does that make his throat dry. “I,” Alfred starts, not really knowing what to say. Should he leave? He should probably leave Arthur to his own gaming experience - he’ll never get better if Alfred’s grabbing his hands and- and - “I’m gonna go - gonna go play, uh, that game over there.” He makes a vague waving gesture to where he’s headed - he’s not entirely sure where - and Arthur nods. Alfred nods back, cheeks feeling warmer than they should, before turning to leave. He’s not even sure if he’s going in the direction he had said he’d be going in.

Not too much later, Yong Soo joins him over by _Dungeon Dan_. Alfred has been staring at the game without playing, too caught up in the way Arthur’s hand had felt beneath his own. It’s a real distraction that he has no idea on how to combat and even the promise of the lulling focused affect games induce in him can’t even break through the haze. His hands are resting on the console, a quarter in one of them, and he’s just not moving them.

Yong Soo pokes one of them. “Uh, Alfred?” He pokes him again. “Are you gonna play or…?” He pokes him again and that seems to do the trick.

Alfred’s head snaps away. “Oh,” he says, removing his hands from where they were. He steps back to allow Yong Soo to play if he wants, but he asks to make sure. “Do you want to play?”

“Uh….” Yong Soo glances at the running graphics of _Dungeon Dan_ \- Dungeon Dan is rugged looking and currently running and battling the evil guards across the screen, words above him prompting people to give him their money. “Aren’t you? You were kind a spacing out there, so-”

“It’s nothing,” Alfred interrupts quickly, which kind of makes it obvious that it _is_ something and he tries not to wince. He clears his throat. “I mean, I don’t mind. I was debating if I wanted to play this or _Pac-Man_.” This is a lie, but Yong Soo doesn’t need to know that.

He seems to know that anyway because he glances over in what Alfred knows to be Arthur’s general direction. “Why’d you invite him again,” he asks a little rudely. Alfred tries not too frown too deeply from the sour taste in his mouth that question created - he still wants them all to get along, but he didn't need to ask it like _that_.

“Because I wanted to say ‘thank you,’” he says. He’s already told him and Magnus why, but apparently it hadn’t set in. “I wasn’t aware he was bad at them, but he’s trying.”

“A little too hard,” Yong Soo mutters under his breath, really low, almost like he didn't want Alfred to catch him, but he did and he doesn’t want to point it out. He should, but he doesn’t. It’s a weird feeling. Because while Yong Soo had meant it negatively - that much was obvious - but the idea of Arthur trying hard (a little _too_ hard) at something Alfred enjoys, for the sake of Alfred (because why else would he try so hard?), makes butterflies lift off in his stomach. They tickles the sour taste away.

“What?” Alfred says instead, innocently, giving his friend a way out of an uncomfortable conversation.

“I said he’s trying hard.”

Alfred nods his head and accepts this. The conversation doesn’t last beyond that and that’s okay. It doesn’t need to, especially with both of them lying like that. He wonders how many more conversations will involve lying and if that’s healthy for friendships.

It isn’t and he knows that. He’s just going to ignore it for as long as possible just like he does for other things in his life.

About two hours later, and a few games that he actually manages to play later, they leave, waving good-bye to Mr. Im who tells Yong Soo to tell his mom that he’ll be home on time tonight. He usually does this and almost never stays late, but Alfred thinks it’s nice that he cares about his wife that much to pass along the message he isn’t staying late at work. Yong Soo thinks it’s ever so slightly annoying. Magnus thinks its funny (minutely; he thinks it’s funny that Yong Soo is annoyed). Arthur doesn’t show a reaction, but this would be his first time hearing it, so he doesn’t understand and that’s fine.

He thanks Alfred for inviting him again before taking off in a direction different from the one he, Magnus, and Yong Soo are headed in. He must live on the other side of the high school and that’s fine, really it is. Alfred’s just sad to see him go.

Magnus and Yong Soo talk more freely when Arthur leaves. It doesn’t sting, not really, but Alfred has a difficult time injecting himself in the conversation. He’s still thinking about Arthur’s hand under his.

He wonders if Arthur is thinking about it too, if he had thought anything of it at all. He hopes he did. He hopes he isn’t the only one feeling this way.

It isn’t until he’s home in his room when he realizes he’s starting to think about it, the thing he hates to acknowledge, the thing he keeps quiet to himself. He knows it’s Arthur's fault and he doesn’t blame him. He wouldn’t have it any other way and that’s kind of scary. But he isn’t ready to admit he has a crush… because he doesn’t. They’re just friends and that’s fine. It’s fine.

* * *

 

   Matthieu Bonnefoy was back in his chair, poker face as brilliant as ever. Tino smiled at him anyway, trying to ease the tension, the disconnect that Bonnefoy had been maintaining throughout the interview. Bonnefoy had never been known for his charming interviews, especially about _The Alfred F. Jones Show_. After a short break, they both had to sit for more questions.

“So, Mr. Bonnefoy,” Tino started. “Let’s talk about your personal experiences on the set.” Bonnefoy had no reaction, though most people Tino had interviewed in the past had perked up about being able to talk about personal experiences. People liked to talk about themselves. Evidently, Bonnefoy did not care. “What was your most memorable moment working on set with Alfred?”

Tino could almost see the memories flood Bonnefoy’s eyes as he sorted quickly through them, finding the one he wanted to share most. He had been a permanent member of the cast for about four years before the show’s cancellation and had visited the set a handful of times before that as a recurring character, staying for a few weeks at a time. Granted, he didn’t have as many memories as Magnus Christensen, Yong Soo Choi, or better still Martha Norris, the woman who had played Alfred Jones’s mother. But he had enough.

He finally decided on one, opening his mouth to say, “Probably the day I moved in with him and Martha.” He didn’t look like he was going to elaborate and Tino wanted to bang his head against a wall when he was forced to ask him to add to that tiny tidbit of a story. Yes. This man was definitely not known for his interviews. “Well, my character’s mother had supposedly died not too long ago in a car accident. I was told to act sad and depressed and I did. Alfred was a great ‘comfort.’” He added air quotes. Tino was almost afraid he wouldn’t say anymore when he stopped talking for a few seconds too long, but then he dropped his head to stare at his lap and continued. His tone had changed, more somber and serious. “It wasn’t hard to act sad. One of the - all right, _the main_ reason I had accepted the permanent role was because my father had been diagnosed with cancer. We had stupidly moved from Canada to the U.S. a year and a half prior so that I could find more Hollywood roles, not that I _did_ , so instead of universal health care, we had good, but not good enough, insurance. And working for _The Alfred F. Jones_ _Show_ earned a lot of money. I didn’t get to see my dad anymore, even though he had to battle cancer by himself, but I took comfort that he could turn on the TV and see me.” He took in a deep breath and released it in a heavy sigh. “Alfred was - _is_ \- a good person. He knows how to make people smile. It was difficult, but he really helped me through the fake mourning of my on-screen mom and the real anxieties and sorrow I felt towards my dad.”

Now _that_ is exactly the type of material Tino was looking for and can definitely work with. It also proved that stone-faced Bonnefoy had feelings. (Not that Tino had _doubted_ per se, but to the _audience_ he could have come off as a bit too indifferent.) But, moving on.

“When did you start to think of him as your brother?”

Bonnefoy actually cracked a smile. “About six months, give or take? It’s kind of hard not to accept Alfred as a fixture in your life within a year. And he’d been calling me his brother weeks and weeks before I’d realized I thought of him in the same way. That was a pretty good day. He was extremely accepting of me and I really appreciated that.” He chuckled a little, almost too quick to catch, and by the time he started speaking again, Tino thought he had imagined it. “I still appreciate that.”

“Is that his most endearing quality,” Tino asked to keep the good ball rolling. “His acceptance of people?”

Bonnefoy nodded. “Yeah, I’d say so. He likes making new friends and is always quick to trust them, even with his background, you know? If I were him, I wouldn’t know how to immediately trust people like that. I’m still amazed he trusts me even after everything I, and the rest of the cast and crew, put him through.” His eyes grew dark and Tino feared he might have accidentally steered the interview in a bad direction. “I don't know how he does it.”

* * *

 

   Things don’t always have to make sense. This is a given. Alfred makes do with what he has. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like it’s enough, but it has to be.

He can’t leave New Haven? There’s a zombie apocalypse outside, or a big void, or a perfectly normal world he just isn’t allowed to see because for some reason he’s been put on the universe’s naughty list.

His mother works in sighs of three? She has a speech pattern divinely imposed on her so the people around her can know how long a conversation is going to last, or she’s secretly a robot, or that’s just the way she is.

He can’t keep a friend beyond the few he has? Either he’s too clingy, or they aren’t as friendly as he is, or some higher being doesn’t want them to be friends because it isn’t in their destiny.

Random people off the street know his name? Like the cashier at the convenience store, or the person he accidentally ran into the other day, or a waitress, or the man selling flowers who had given him one to take home to his mom on Mother’s Day. They had probably overheard his name in passing, or he had met them before and he’d forgotten, or they were his guardian angel presenting itself in the bodies of strangers.

The world wasn’t out to get him. He led a normal life, as normal as anybody’s, and did his best to stay in his own lane. But just because he did his best to make things make sense, didn’t mean he always believed himself. Some of those options were just flat out lies and he knew it, there was just nothing he could do about it. Because while some things didn’t make sense, other things did.

He lived in a nice place called New Haven. It was a pretty place. Any other place couldn’t have come close to being as picturesque as New Haven, especially in a zombie apocalypse.

His mother loved him and was a wonderful person. She wasn’t some cold, heartless robot programmed to act as his mother.

The friends he had were wonderful people. Other people would be nice as friends as well, but they each had their own friends. He really couldn’t ask for more.

However, as much as he tries, Alfred couldn’t make perfect sense of the fact that the little girl at the park who had dropped her dolly knew his name, or the lady who had sat next to him in the movie theatre that one time, or the employee at the clothing store, or anybody else who knew his name and shouldn’t have. He just couldn’t make sense of it.

Some things were weird and they had to be left like that, like they were normalities. Because if he brought attention to them, he felt like they would become even weirder.

Ignoring things was becoming a specialty of his, for better or for worse.

 

   Weeks pass by comfortably. Before he knows it, it’s Thanksgiving break. He has no plans other than relax and forget about Emma’s advances and his friends increasing possessiveness over him.

Admittedly, it had taken him a while to realize what they were doing. In the morning, if he spotted Arthur, they would get in his line of vision and almost demand his attention. Or Emma would stick to his desk like a leech for as long as she could taking up his time until Mr. Presley would ask her to take a seat and as soon as the bell would ring, be back again in a flash. After school, Magnus and Yong Soo would escort him off of campus with no distractions, as they would say, so that they could all go home and start on their homework, or go to the arcade for some fun, just the three of them like always. They would stress “just the three of them.” In retaliation, Alfred had taken to spending lunch in the library with Arthur. Which was a nice change, really and truly. The library is much quieter than the cafeteria and Arthur was more than happy to have him around and explain what he was reading - at least, Alfred thought that his presence was welcome. Afterall, he was never told to go away and one day after English, Arthur had even said he was looking forward to lunch. So instead of discussing new movies and teacher’s assignments and girls, he was treated to Dickens, Eliot, Tolkien, and more Shakespeare. Once, Arthur had brought in _Harry Potter_ for Alfred to look at, which he greatly enjoyed, and finally understood what a Gryffindor and a Slytherin were.

Magnus and Yong Soo were less than thrilled by this development. He still hung out with them before and after school so he didn’t understand what the big deal was. The only people he ever made plans with was them and they definitely had plans to hang out over break. But apparently, hanging out with Arthur wasn’t conducive to the relationship his friend’s wanted him to have. (Which is true, but Alfred doesn’t really want that relationship.) “You should be spending time with Emma,” they said. “Get her to go with you to Winter Formal. If you don’t tell her you’re interested, she’ll never know.” He couldn’t even begin to describe what was wrong with that sentence. He has no interest in her, he doesn’t want her to think that he does, and he definitely doesn’t want to got to Winter Formal with her, or anybody at all because he wouldn’t know what to _do_ there. (Besides, Arthur had said he wasn’t going either.)

For all of her efforts, Emma had still not picked her way into his heart, not that he ever expected her to. But she continued to swoop down like a bird of prey when he was least prepared. She would fluff her feathers and make proposals, her voice twittering and trilling, and fly away as soon as she noticed her peacocking was not effective. He didn’t know how much more he could take.

As it was, the mercy of the heavens is upon him, and break descended over New Haven High. They are all free for a week to do as they please. Going on break was always pleasant, maybe not so much for parents, and all the stress that he and other students had accumulated all over the year was already dripping away like fat off the turkey they’d all be eating later this week.

He and Matthew return that day from school with happiness buzzing through their systems. Their mother greets them as they enter with a big smile. As far as Alfred could remember, Thanksgiving had been his one of his mother’s favorite holidays, purely because she could cook all day without anybody telling her to stop. His dad had liked the holiday too because he enjoyed his wife’s cooking, but in the years following his death, his spot at the Thanksgiving dinner table was replaced by Mr. Franklin. Alfred remembered minding in the beginning, but over the years, he’s come to accept it. Knowing that the man isn’t eating alone that day, or on Christmas, or any other holiday really, makes him happy.

“Any plans this week, boys,” she asks. “Mr. Franklin will be over at two on Thursday, just as a heads up.” It’s hardly a heads up - that’s the time he always shows up for Thanksgiving dinner. Or, after lunch, as Alfred likes to call it. Well, really, it _was_ lunch because he never had anything between breakfast and that dinner. Technicalities and traditions.

He and Matthew glance at each other and shrug. They’re supposed to hang out with friends at the arcade and the beach sometime this week, but beyond that, they’re staying home. “Not really,” Alfred says. “Mostly video games.” Their mother nods her head and leaves them to do as they please.

Once he’s squared away happily in his room reading the newest edition of _Superman_ he borrowed off of Yong Soo, Matthew decides he wants to talk. About school, of all things. “ _Stop_ ,” Alfred moans. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Matthew raises an eyebrow. “All I said was that I’d help you. Writing a paragraph of French may be easy for me, but you suck.”

He whimpers before glaring at his brother. “Ask me again next Sunday.”

“The assignment’s due that Monday.”

“What do you want from me?”

Something that looks deeply annoyed fills Matthew’s face for a fraction of a second and he looks off to his left with unrest. “You know,” he says, voice strained as if he doesn’t want to speak. “Girls really like French. I bet Emma would be really charmed if you put in some effort.” His nose scrunches up with a sniff of disgust before his eyes return back to Alfred. “In any case, I am willing to help if you need it.” He leaves as quickly as he came and Alfred struggles to focus back on Superman fighting bad guys.

He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. Clearly, Matthew had been uncomfortable saying what he did, but he had said it anyway. And clearly he had come to Alfred’s room just to say it, so why did he look so unhappy? Matthew offered to help all the time and mercifully never brought up Emma, but he did this time and Alfred just doesn’t get why he would make himself awkward by doing so. It wasn’t like he was _forced_ to say it.

And really, this conversation was just a precursor to the week.

 

   He’s been staring at it for the past half hour. It’s sleek, unassuming, wooden, and no longer shiny. A thin layer of dust coats all over its surface. It was his father’s surfboard, held perfectly up on the garage wall by a slim shelf for half a decade and for all the world parched.

Alfred had dreamed of riding it one day, or maybe having his own. Now he figures that his father’s may as well be his, but how terrible of an owner is he to have never taken it out to sea? His hands tremble when he reaches out to touch it, for Pete’s sake! But for the past half hour, they hadn’t even twitched. He’s felt a calm that had been a stranger to him for so long as he stared and continues to stare at the old board.

He wants to touch it. He just isn’t sure he can.

He knows that if he waits too long, he’ll be late to meet his friends down at the beach. They had planned the outing yesterday - Magnus, Yong Soo, Emma, and a couple others from various classes wanted to play in the water one last time before it truly became too cold to do so. Alfred had tried his hardest to get Matthew to go, but he had claimed he didn’t want to catch a cold. That wasn’t a very good excuse in Alfred’s opinion - he wasn’t planning on going in the water, or course, and Matthew didn’t need to either. But Matthew was staying home and that was that.

It’s now or never.

His hand doesn’t tremble when he reaches up, though he isn’t sure how he manages that. His hand doesn’t instantly retract from the dusty surface upon contact as if being shocked like he expects it to. His hand doesn’t hesitate to run his fingers across the dust in a long streak down the board. His hand pulls away colored grey and he isn’t even disgusted with the dirty feeling, just wipes it on his pants and forgets. Rubbing away the dust fills him with confidence, looking at the streak that his fingers left fills him with determination, the idea of going down to the beach with his friends fills him with enough adrenaline to grab the board off the shelf in one fell swoop.

It’s lighter than he remembered, but the last time he had felt this weight was when he was a child. It’s also smaller, though it hadn’t changed size, he had. He’s his father’s height now, tall enough to ride this surfboard without any difficulties, to carry it around without dragging it. It’s rough surface is practically demanding to be waxed, but his mom had thrown it all out years ago in a spring cleaning. He wishes they had kept some, so that he could wax it now, which is ridiculous because it isn’t like he’s going to ride it anyway. He knows he should put the board back on the shelf, but he keeps it in his arms for a while longer.

After a few minutes, he goes down to meet his friends at the beach, board on his shoulder.

Almost immediately upon arriving, Magnus asks, “Al, what’s with the surfboard?”

He flounders, having no answer other than a spur of the moment happening and stalls by setting the board down on the sand and sitting beside it. “Um,” he says dumbly. “I just - I dunno. I wanted to.”

Magnus stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “Wanted to what? _Surf_?”

Alfred cringes and looks away. “No. I just wanted to bring it.” He can feel Magnus’s stare still on him, judging him and not understanding, but there isn’t a way he _can_ make him understand because even _he_ still doesn’t quite get it. He looks around for a subject change, not wanting to dwell on his strange impulse for much longer, and lands on the coke bottle Magnus has in his hand. “Where can I get a coke?” Magnus looks down at the bottle in his hands, back at the board, and then at Alfred before telling him about the cooler a boy named Toris brought.

Coke in hand, Alfred gets lost in conversations with people he doesn’t know all too well, but they talk to him like they’re old friends anyway so there isn’t really an issue. A few people start up a volleyball game, some go down to enjoy the water, and others attempt to make the biggest sandcastle they possibly can. Yong Soo keeps him company when Emma isn’t around to bother him. He thinks that maybe she’s finally getting that he isn’t interested. For a few hours, this is all he needs - just to sit on the beach and enjoy it - but eventually, he no longer hears the conversations, notices the games or hobbies.

Instead, his mind drifts towards the blue expanse stretching across the horizon. The water is churning, making moderate sized waves, big enough to surf. He remembers riding them. He remembers crashing to shore, ankle tethered to his board by a velcro strap. He remembers the roaring of the sea when his board would give out under him, can hear it now as he sits in the sand, toes dug in, his father’s board next to him. His gaze flickers briefly from the sea down to his side where he finds that most of the dust had blown off in the wind only to be replaced by sand. Without hesitation, he sets a hand down to brush at the sand before looking up to the horizon again. The sun is setting and the get together is coming to a close.

That calmness returns. That calmness that spreads throughout his body in the same way that sleep or adrenalin does - suddenly there and not being able to stop it once it’s done. The sun is warm on his face, the breeze gentle on his skin, the sand coarse but comforting on his feet. The water… the water looks cool and smooth, shifting its way higher onto the beach, almost as if it is searching for a new companion. Its ebb and flow reminds Alfred of a timid child not knowing how to ask for a hug and in that moment, that moment with that calmness seeping into his bones, Alfred really wants to be the person that falls into its embrace.

And that thought stops him in his tracks; the hands that had started to reach and grab the surfboard off the ground unclench and pull away. That calmness persists, but his brain starts racing. The water continues to ebb and flow, but his mind twists the timid hug into a demented asking for sacrifice, wanting to pull a victim underneath its surface to never be released again. But that split second of fear is over, replaced with a feeling of determination. If he ever wants a chance to get over his fear of the water, now is the time. He can feel it.

His hands move to grip the surfboard again and really get up, but Magnus comes over before he is able to.

“Hey, we’re leaving now,” he says, looking down at Alfred who is still sitting in the sand. A quick glance over his shoulders reveals that everybody else who had come was packing up their things. He hadn’t realized how much time he had missed wrapped up in his thoughts. “Are you coming?”

Alfred tears his eyes away from his acquaintances-turned-friends (maybe) and back towards the ocean. His heart aches to be out there, but he forces himself to answer. “Yeah. In a moment.” A breeze passes by and it sends a chill up his spine. “It’s getting colder,” he notes.

Magnus chuckles. “Yeah. That’s why we’re leaving.” He looks around awkwardly, probably because Alfred is still on the ground. “We’ll really get sick if we get into the water now, y’know?”

Alfred hums and drums his fingers against the board, still not looking up at his friend. “How sick do you think?”

That makes Magnus pause. “Uh? Pretty sick, maybe? Or not at all if you’re lucky?” He heaves a sigh and makes an ‘I don’t know’ sound. They remain quiet for a few minutes longer, Magnus staring down at Alfred and Alfred staring off into the distance of the horizon. “Look, are you getting up or what?”

 _Now or never_ , he thinks and says, “Yup.” Magnus extends an arm down to help him up and once he is, bends down to pick up the board. “Just gotta do one thing.”

Before Magnus can vocalize his confusion, Alfred starts to run to the sea, board in his arms. He can hear several people calling after him, in fact, all concerned about his health. He pays them no mind and runs straight into the water.

It’s cold. A lot colder than he imagined, but this doesn’t deter him. Once he’s waded deep enough, he plops the unwaxed surfboard on the surface and clumsily climbs on top. He hasn’t done this in a long time, he knows this, his body knows this, so he doesn’t expect to do it perfectly. After he’s sure he isn’t going to fall off, he paddles farther in to where he thinks he can catch a wave. His body is starting to freeze up and he can’t tell if that’s from the cold or from the panic and terror slowly gripping his heart.

When he gets to the place he wants to be, the calmness he had felt earlier is gone. It’s been replaced with shivering and fear. He can see his friends back on the shore watching him and he wonders how he’ll ever make it back to them. He looks down to the water which had looked so inviting before, but now all he can think about is never setting foot on land again and drowning and laying in a watery grave for all eternity. His vision is going blurry and his mouth feels dry. The freezing water is making it difficult for him to discern what’s a reaction to the temperature and what’s a reaction to the panic.

 _Now or never_ , he thinks and waits patiently for the next wave, heart pounding in his chest.

When it comes, it’s bigger than the ones that had preceded it. He thinks it’s the universe’s way of telling him that this was a bad decision. But somehow, someway, after years of not practicing, he manages to get it right.

Admittedly, it’s shaky, but he rides it pretty well all things considered. He stands hesitantly, being mindful of its unwaxed texture and the balance and grace he had lost since he was ten. When he finally stands to his full height, he can’t believe it. It’s incredible, like he can do anything in that moment. The wind is whipping by, and the water is being cut through by his board - his _father’s_ board, under his feet - and the feeling of complete and utter elation encapsulates his body and soul, smile stretching farther across his face than he thinks it ever has before. He feels on top of the world until he _does_ miscalculate his balance and it sends him tipping over.

He barely has time to shout before he hits the water. Water surrounds him everywhere and real panic sweeps in. His mind barely has time to process if he remembers how to swim or not, barely has time to think about where the surfboard has gone, barely has time to think that he is still fully clothed, sans shoes, and that the extra material is weighing him down. He can’t tell which way is up and which is down, he thinks he was close to the shore, but the lack of oxygen is making it hard to think. He needs air, he knows that, that’s the one thing his mind can definitively say it wants, but he doesn’t know how to get it surrounded by cold, cold, unforgiving water.

He thinks he’s going to die, to drown as his father did.

But he doesn’t. In something like a miracle, he finds his way to the surface and gulps down a breath that is half air, half salt water, making him gag and cough. His energy is depleted enough all ready, but he fights his way to the shore, straining to breath and not choke on water, but it’s so difficult and he thinks he’s going to die. This was a bad idea and he’s going to die.

But he doesn’t. He finally collapses on the shore, spent and still coughing up water. Off to his side, he can see the surfboard also wash ashore, which fills him with relief. It’s only a second later that Magnus and Yong Soo appear in his line of vision.

“Alfred!” Yong Soo is shouting, but the water clogging his ears makes it sound mildly affronted. “What were you thinking? You could have been killed!”

He hacks up what he thinks must be the remaining water and takes in a deep breath of just air and _lives_. He could have died, but he didn’t. He got on a surfboard and rode a wave by himself and he could have died, but he didn’t. He survived the water. He felt on top of the world, like he could do anything now that he had faced his fear so directly, so head on that he feels like laughing from absurdity. So he does.

His laughter cuts clearly through the tense air, so sharply that he nearly stuns himself, but it’s so clear and bright and _happy_ that it brings more bubbles of laughter out of him. He can’t remember when he laughed like this last, but he suddenly doesn’t want to laugh any other way.

In the back of his mind he can hear his friends asking, “Are you crazy?” but he can’t be bothered to respond. He sits himself up in the damp sand, water pawing at his legs, and gazes at the broad horizon line feeling more alive and sane than he had at the start of the day, the week, the month, the year, and beyond.

 

   On Thursday, Alfred helps his mother with the cooking like a good son. Matthew helps prepare as well. (Correction: Matthew helps with the cooking because Alfred can only make hamburgers, so instead, he sets the table.) He and his brother only had a measly bowl of cereal for breakfast so they could stuff their faces at dinner/lunch. The hours before are always his favorite, though, even with his stomach grumbling from all the delicious smells.

Well, that’s really the reason why those hours cooking are his favorite. The smells are familiar and promising, warm and comforting. Turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, and mac and cheese. Stuffing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie and sourdough bread. They assault his nose in the best way possible. He supposes he’s thankful for them.

Mr. Franklin shows up at 2:00 PM on the dot. He’s a friendly, portly fellow with no wife and no kids, which has never made sense in Alfred’s mind. He is handsome enough, good-natured, has a nice house and job, but he’s never had a girlfriend - at least, from what Alfred knows. There isn’t anything fundamentally disarming about him, except for the fact he lives alone when he so obviously craves a family - as far back as Alfred remembers, Mr. Franklin had hung around his family as often as he could.

Upon arriving, he helps his mother bring in the dishes from the kitchen as he normally does while Alfred and Matthew wait patiently seated at the table. Alfred twiddles his thumbs, staring at the table as dish after dish is placed. His mom and Mr. Franklin are giggling at whatnot as they play quick-catch-up before really settling in and chatting during dinner. They were nothing but friendly towards one another; it’s nice knowing that friendships can last as long as they do. Alfred wonders if he, Magnus, and Yong Soo will still be as close as they are when they’re their parents ages.

Finally, the turkey has been placed and they take a moment to feast their eyes on the feast laid before them. His mother cues them in to take each other’s hands - Matthew is to his left and his mother to his right, Mr. Franklin across the way - and she recites grace before they individually have the opportunity to say what they are thankful for. His mom is thankful for her sons, the meal, and the company of Mr. Franklin as always. Mr. Franklin is thankful for the Jones family, his job, and apple pie. Matthew is thankful for his family, his education, hockey. Alfred fumbles a bit because he never knows what to say after “I’m thankful for my family and friends,” but eventually settles on comic books. As they release each other’s hands and start for whatever food is closest, Alfred can’t help but notice Mr. Franklin’s hand lingering on his mother’s for a second longer. It makes an awkward feeling fall haphazardly in his chest. He brushes it aside in favor of mashed potatoes.

An easy conversation descends upon the dinner table, light and breezy. There are no trick questions about grades or any other responsibilities that Alfred and Matthew may or may not have forgotten about. Nothing is wrong at Mr. Franklin or his mom’s work; all is fine and dandy in the world. And then Mr. Franklin asks about his friends and without realizing it, Alfred falls into a trap.

He said it innocently enough, or at least he thinks he did. “I hang out with Magnus and Yong Soo sometimes after school and I eat lunch with Arthur, usually.” There isn’t anything in that sentence to warrant an interrogation, but apparently there’s enough there for Mr. Franklin to question.

To be fair, his mom asks first. “Arthur? The boy you did that English project with?” There’s nothing but pure curiosity in her inquiry, nothing but motherly love wanting assurance that she’s correct and not mistaken. He hadn’t mentioned Arthur to her since then, had no need to really because he only ever hung out with him in school and didn’t often speak to her about lunchtime activities because there was no need to, but suddenly he felt as if he _should_ have, like it was important now. He nods his head, attempting to hide his needless anxiety.

“Oh!” exclaims Mr. Franklin. “What’s he like? Why don’t you eat lunch with your friends anymore?”

Alfred had started to smile at the opportunity to talk about Arthur, but it catches on ‘friends.’ The question felt accusatory, like Arthur wasn’t his friend, that he could only be friends with Magnus and Yong Soo, as if there might be a problem with Arthur and it settles heavily in his stomach. “Uh,” he fumbles, half-smile not dropping but turning more into a grimace. “He’s nice. He reads a lot and has green hair and has a couple piercings and-” He bites his tongue to keep himself from talking about his pretty green eyes, which allows him to see the expression on his mom and Mr. Franklin’s face. He takes in a deep breath and only has a second to beat himself up over mentioning Arthur’s hair color and piercings - _why_ did he mention those when there’s a ton more _charming_ qualities he could have chosen from? - before Mr. Franklin opens his mouth again.

“Green hair? _Piercings_?” Alfred flinches at the tone. Mr. Franklin has a scowl painted deep in his face. “This Arthur doesn’t sound like the sort you should be hanging around.”

He feels affronted. It’s like the things he said before - about Arthur being nice and reading - were wholly forgotten and ignored and everything that Arthur is has been boiled down to dangerous because of a few holes he had added to his body. He starts to defend his friend, but his mother cuts in, “Don’t try to argue.” She looks upset as she sets her fork down gently on her plate, emitting a low sigh. Number one. “I don’t want you hanging around people who will mar their skin like that. They’re dangerous people.”

“But he’s only intimidating and dangerous looking,” Alfred says quickly. “He’s actually _really nice_ and-”

“That’s how they get you,” Mr. Franklin interrupts, waving his fork in his direction. “They pretend to be nice and then pressure you into doing something you don’t really want to do.”

“Arthur isn’t-”

“Alfred,” his mother sighs. Number two. “I don’t want you around somebody like that. It’s detrimental to your future.”

He’s scrambling to find something to raise Arthur into his mother’s good graces, but he feels like he’s already done irreparable damage. He looks over to Matthew for help, but he just shrugs his shoulders with an apprehensive expression. Not that he could have done much, he hasn’t mingled with Arthur at all to Alfred’s knowledge. “But,” he tries, not really knowing what to say, but also not wanting to let his mom and Mr. Franklin have the upper hand.

Mr. Franklin shakes his head. “No buts,” he asserts. “Your mother and I don’t want to hear another word. Stay away from him, Alfred.”

The way he says this, with authority and terseness, makes Alfred’s blood run icy hot. His heart stutters and his fingers start to curl in a fist. An unhelpful rage starts to unleash itself because how _dare_ Mr. Franklin say that like he had control over him? He wasn’t his father! And yet, there that man was, sitting in his father’s chair, pretending to impart fatherly wisdom over a situation he didn’t understand and didn’t care to. Alfred sucks in a deep breath so he doesn’t have to pause in his rant, but again his mother speaks before he has a chance.

“Please,” she says. His glare turns on her, though it is undeserving. When she sees it, she sighs and he knows this conversation is over. Number three. “For me.”

He takes a deep breath. “No.” What they’re asking isn’t fair, even if they don’t realize it and he isn’t going to give up without voicing his opinion at least once.

His act of defiance earns the response he expected: a harsh, “Alfred!” from his mom, but he’s done his part and doesn’t fight back anymore.

“Whatever.” He glares a little longer pointed in Mr. Franklin’s direction, but ultimately says nothing as he starts eating his food again. The mood at the table has been shifted entirely and it isn’t pleasant at all.

He feels bad that Matthew has been caught in the middle of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 of Anime Expo! I had a lot of fun yesterday - popped into the Hetalia meetup briefly to say hi to a friend, did karaoke with my sister (Take Off by 2PM from Blue Exorcist), went to a lecture on Studio Ghibli, and most importantly went to the Corgi Cosplay panel. Yup. It was as adorable as it sounds.
> 
> Fun fact! This is the shortest chapter. Sorry lol that's just the way I split it up :P I love all of you wonderful people and I hope you all have a beyond magnificent day! :)

   Tino has been anticipating this interview. Up until now, he’s been talking with people who had been a part of the show or who had watched and enjoyed it, but now he got to talk to the people who had opposed it. Talking to the opposition was always fun - seeing a different side to the story was enlightening and put into perspective the shortcomings of the other side.

Sitting before him were the co-founders of the Association Against Honda Productions, Gilbert Beilschmidt and Elizabeta Héderváry. They had met each other in university where they both studied humanities and become fast and close friends. That had been three decades ago; the two friends were now well into their fifties, having been twenty-six and twenty-seven, respectively, when the show had first aired. Before Alfred Jones had even been born, they had been protesting show and tried their hardest to see it not come to fruition. Their efforts did not succeed, obviously, but even after, they protested and their cause became bigger over time.

“First off,” Tino started, “welcome and thank you for being here.” They nodded politely and offered quiet greetings. Not wanting to waste time, he continued. “When the show aired, how disappointed were you that your hard work had gone to waste?”

Héderváry looked affronted. “It hadn’t gone to waste,” she said passionately. “It just took a while to work properly.”

“When we first started out,” Beilschmidt said, “we knew that our efforts would take time. Honda was a big name and the show was going to be his most expensive ever. There was a lot of hype we had to combat and it unfortunately took a long time for people to realize what a huge violation of human rights and privacy it was.”

Tino nodded along. Both of them held great conviction in their words and believed with all of their hearts that their goal could be accomplished. After _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ , they had gone on to become famous humanitarians around the world, helping millions of people in need. Alfred Jones had just been their beginning.

“Did you ever watch it,” he asked. This was a question the station manager demanded he asked these two - understandably. Tino was also curious for the answer.

Beilschmidt and Héderváry shared a pregnant look. “We refrained,” Beilschmidt admitted eventually. “We were very adamant about not contributing to the views. However, others in our association would tune in every once and awhile to watch Alfred Jones’s progress, but this became less and less over time as the internet spread information faster and more reliably.” He lapsed into silence and Tino was ready to move on if that was all he was going to get, but Héderváry cut in at the last second.

“We watched once.” Her confession was quiet, directed at the floor, and her shoulders were hunched in shame, or maybe disappointment. “Only once. That last day was chaotic and several of our friends and colleagues demanded we turn on our TV to see what was happening.” She looked up and cast a contemplative look in Beilschmidt direction before returning her eyes to Tino’s. “We never could have imagined what we saw that night - I don’t think anyone could have.”

Tino smiled kindly. “What was it like that last day? Those last moments when your mission was completed? Was it everything you could have hoped for?”

“And more,” Beilschmidt said immediately, a wide smile gracing his lips. “There aren’t enough words to describe the relief and joy felt among the association when Alfred Jones became free.”

Héderváry was also smiling. “We were all happy and excited. All the work and time we had put in into his freedom - well, it hadn’t really done much in the end. He freed himself, but we were still there for him when he came out. It was an honor helping him become adjusted to everyday life without cameras watching his every move.” Beilschmidt bobbed his head in agreement, a sort of nostalgia overcoming his features. “It had been a long road for us, but it was even longer for him.”

* * *

 

   It might seem silly to say, or childish, or crazy, but Alfred is afraid of ghosts. There wasn’t a real reason as to why, just an irrational fear he had had ever since he was a child and he’d caught a glance of a ghost on _Scooby Doo_. He refused to watch the show after that, being terribly frightened that a dead person could come back to haunt him was traumatic. Monsters he could deal with - he’d never seen one alive, he’d never see one dead.

Ghosts were different. He could meet a person - he had met plenty - and people died. People, regular people who he knew, could be ghosts and that was scary.

For many nights, ghosts haunted his dreams and his parents had to do their best to calm him. In the daytime, he swore he saw ghosts walking around and his parents had to do their best to calm him. Ghosts followed him everywhere he went and there wasn’t anything his parents could do to snap him out of it.

And then his father had died and suddenly he felt as if ghosts truly, really, and honestly _were_ real. He would see his father everywhere - at school, in the park, at home, in the market, at the movies, on TV…. It freaked him out, but he never brought it up to his mom in the fear that it would freak _her_ out. His skin would crawl each time he caught a glance, but he would do his best to ignore it because people said that his father was watching over him from heaven.

His dad was watching him, but not in heaven. On the ground, just watching. And watching. Everywhere he went.

Years later, after he stopped seeing his dad everywhere, he chalked it up to grief. But he still believed in ghosts. No matter how many times he told himself they weren’t real, he couldn’t make himself believe his words, or anybody else’s. He tried to avoid ghost stories, and shows and movies that might feature them, but on the off chance he did, he’d have to bunk with Matthew for the night just to catch an hour of sleep.

On those sleepless nights, he wondered if his chances of encountering a ghost would go up if he left New Haven. He thinks realistically, yes, but at the same time, _no_ , because although he may believe, there still might not be any. And while there are a lot more scarier things out in the world to be encountered - _real_ things - he can’t help but to keep ghosts at the top of the list. He keeps the reality of ghosts in his mind - they are just as real as he is, or so he thinks.

If ghosts aren’t real, then neither is he. (That may not be exactly true, but he did bet Matthew his life that they were when he was thirteen, so that may or may not be why he is so adamant about their existence.) And if he isn’t real, then nothing is. (He’s pretty sure he heard somebody say that some old guy had said, “I think, therefore I am,” which helps him be confident that he is real, and, therefore, so are ghosts.) If nothing is real, then it doesn’t really matter what time of day it is at all and he may as well stuff his face with dessert.

But, of course, if ghosts are real, does that mean he has the chance of becoming one?

 

   A week into December and Alfred is already dying of end-of-the-semester demands. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when finals _do_ come around. Not to mention, kids all over the school are buzzing with excitement for Winter Formal. His mom has been trying to slip money into his backpack so that he can buy tickets, but he keeps placing it back on the kitchen counter when he gets home. Matthew hasn’t been subjected to the same kind of treatment, which really isn’t fair, but there isn’t much he can do about because his mom and friends still aren’t believing him when he says he isn’t going.

And don’t even get him started on Emma. She had been approaching him just about everyday, twice a day, popping out of nowhere life a gopher, or a ferret, or whatever. She isn’t taking no for an answer, not that she has directly asked, but she’s incredibly persistent.

It’s early in the morning, a little over a week to go until Winter Formal and winter break. He’s talking with Magnus and Yong Soo by his locker as always. Well, they’re talking about a new brand of mops only $15.99 and some guy’s newest book at a bookstore near them and Alfred isn’t really listening because he doesn’t particularly care. But then she approaches and he’s forced to pay attention when she saddles right up next to him.

He can feel her breasts pushing against his arm a little too snugly and he makes to shake her off, but she presses closer, grinning like a weasel - a weasel! Not a gopher or whatever, a weasel - and stretching an arm around him. “Morning,” she greets. “I dreamt about you last night.”

Alfred nods foolishly. “That’s nice,” he says in place of anything else.When her grin tightens and brightens, he feels like he’s stuck his foot in his mouth.

“Yes,” she agrees, squeezing her arm a little, drawing him closer. He tries to back away, but she holds him where he is. He feels like a hostage, a rabbit with a fox. “It was nice. You took me dancing.” Ah. So there’s a possibility she hadn’t really dreamt about him and only want to drop non-subtle hints about her wants. “Maybe we should make that dream a reality, huh?”

He shivers and knows she feels it. She looks up at him through her lashes, trying to play innocent. He’s paralyzed, mouth dry, and Magnus and Yong Soo have mysteriously disappeared. The universe wants to see him broken and helpless, but he’s getting tired of taking a back seat. So he takes a deep breath and speaks with as much confidence as he can muster. “I don’t think so.”

Her face drops in surprise, arm going slack, and he can’t help but thinking that now _she_ is the one who looks dumb. “Huh?” She’s dumbfounded and it’s wonderful.

He quickly swallows whatever nervous feeling is left and presses on. (But he doesn’t want to be cruel, so he tries his best to reject her gently.) “I’d step on your feet,” he says and almost flinches at how stupid that sounds. “So… so I’ll have to say no. Sorry.” He makes his escape before she has the chance to say anything else.

That may be cowardly, but he can’t find it in him to care.

 

   Later that week, he’s in the library with Arthur during lunch as has become their usual. Arthur is the only one who doesn’t bring up Winter Formal around him and Magnus and Yong Soo have been giving him a lot of grief over it, so this is a well needed break.

This time around, Arthur’s brought Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_. Alfred isn’t familiar with the story, isn’t familiar with any Shakspeare story really until Arthur fills him in, and from what Arthur has already said, knows that it’s bound to be interesting.

The prince, Hamlet, has come home from college to a dead father, whose brother Claudius has married the queen, Hambam’s mother. Alfred had been shocked to hear that, but Arthur assured him it was supposed to be shocking. Hamilton also has a ‘girlfriend’ named Ophelia, who has a dad who is Spamlet’s uncle/step-dad’s right hand man. Also, for some reason or another, Ham Sandwhich’s dad’s ghost (Alfred shivers uncomfortably and thinks that maybe he _won’t_ like this) tells him that his brother murdered him.

“This isn’t a happy story,” Alfred points out. He feels stupid for pointing out something so obvious, but he knows Arthur won’t judge. Arthur had said sometime before that he found his inane comments amusing.

Arthur snorts. “Uh, no, that’s a big no.” He smiles briefly at him across the table, book of plays in between them. “It’s a tragedy and it gets worse.”

He stares down at the book in befuddlement. “ _How_? Did King Clod actually kill his brother?” Arthur nods. “That sucks.” He makes a face at the book before looking back up.

Arthur hums in agreement, flipping a few pages to move on to another act continuing on with his crash course. “A lot of people die, actually,” he admits and Alfred quirks an eyebrow. “Hamlet, Queen Gertrude, Claudius, Ophelia and her father and brother-”

“She has a brother?” He leans closer as if to close the distance between them, the table digging into his stomach. He does this almost subconsciously, the only thing bringing his movement to the forefront of his mind is the discomfort.

There’s a smirk on Arthur’s face as he says, “Briefly.” That sets them off giggling and it takes a few odd looks from the librarian to get them to stop. Arthur’s hand is still resting on the book and Alfred wants nothing more than to take it.

Ever since that time in the arcade, the urge to hold his hand had grown more and more, especially with the more time they spent together. Still, Alfred had never directly taken Arthur’s hand again, only brushed by it a few times, sending sparks up his arm. But, oh, how he wished to do more. Sometimes he wondered if it would be terribly awkward to reach out across and pull him into a hug, even for the briefest of moments, just to feel him against-

He really needs to stop with these thoughts. He gets too lost in them, uncomfortably so, _and_ Arthur has been speaking for some time and he hasn’t been paying attention.

Besides, why would Arthur want to hug him?

“-and after Claudius has taken a sip from the poisoned cup, he dies and Hamlet talks to his friend Horatio one last time,” he hears Arthur say, eyes focused on the book, hand gently caressing it. Arthur takes great care of his books, cherishes them, and it makes Alfred kind of wish he was a book, which is, _again_ , weird. His eyes track the movement before going up and gazing at his beautiful face, piercings glinting off the fake phlorescent light of the school library, the slight slope of his nose, the curves of his cheeks, looking for all the world at peace. “The end, basically.” Arthur’s pretty green eyes leave the page and find their way to Alfred’s. A pink glazing spreads across both their cheeks - he’d just been caught staring and he can’t even _look away_ all he can do is _keep staring_ and isn’t that just _weird_ ? But his gaze doesn’t waver and neither does Arthur’s and it feels like they stare at each other for an eternity, _Hamlet_ forgotten, until the bell rings dimly in the background of their minds.

Arthur clears his throat, snapping Alfred out of his haze, and they begin to pack up. “See you,” Arthur says, a little stammer running through the words.

“Bye,” Alfred says in reply, wishing that they didn’t have to go to class. He could get lost in Arthur’s eyes forever. He wants to.

He’s distracted from the rest of the school day. His thoughts are jumping back and forth between Arthur's pretty green eyes and _Hamlet_. Something about the story, while it hadn’t fully settled in and had been comprehended in Alfred’s mind at the time, is itching at the back of his consciousness. Something about the story reminds him of… _something_. It is familiar in all the ways it shouldn’t be.

It’s a weird thought - he’s been having a lot of weird thoughts lately - but he wonders if Hamlet’s story is true, or has ever been true once somewhere in the world at some point in time.

 

   Winter Formal is this Friday and then winter break starts. That also means finals are this week and Alfred and everybody else is freaking out. But, hey, it’s only Monday.

The only reprieve he feels he gets is at lunchtime. The library, though finals are coming up, still isn’t the most popular place to be, so it’s relatively quiet. Arthur’s presence is also a plus. However, he feels that Magnus and Yong Soo are getting antsy over his absences, but that isn’t his problem, so he prepares to go to the library after fourth period is over, only to be intercepted by Magnus before he can even make a single step. As quickly as he appeared, his arm is over Alfred’s shoulders, leading him in the direction of the cafeteria.

“Hey, what,” he yelps when he realizes what’s happening. “Dude, what?”

“I want to talk to you,” Magnus says with a shrug.

He tries his best to pry his arm off but to no avail. “Can’t we talk later?” He usually has a chat with him and Yong Soo after school anyway, what is so important that it can’t wait?

“No.” They’re silent until they’re sitting at their usual table, Yong Soo already there who greets him with a big smile, like he’s really missed him or something. “So,” he says after they have a mini staring contest. “We want to talk about your behavior.”

Alfred scoffs in disbelief. “My _behavior_ ,” he asks incredulously. He leans across the table in hopes of maybe catching a glimpse of a joke somewhere across Magnus’s face, but there isn’t one. “What are you? My parents?”

Magnus rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, your behavior. We’re your friends, Al, but lately it hasn’t felt like it.”

“I’ll say,” he grumbles, looking away from his friends. But for some reason, he feels that they’re trying to say that _he_ is the problem when he’s been experiencing the opposite.

“Look,” Yong Soo says with a non-malevolent poker-face, “we’re trying to be supportive and whatever, but you keep pushing us away.” He’s making his hand gestures as nonthreatening as possible, but his words still cut like a knife. _When_ exactly had he pushed them away?

“I am not!” He can feel himself heat up and he tries his best to keep it down because he doesn’t want to fight. So, he takes the advice that most teachers offer when a student feels like fighting - walking away. “And I am not going to sit here and take this - I have better things to do with my time.” He starts to push away from the table to leave, but Magnus reaches out and grabs his arm to stop him. Immediately, he attempts to wrestle himself free, but Magnus holds tight and purses his lips.

“No, Alfred,” he says firmly before releasing some tension through a sigh. He lets Alfred go when he’s pretty sure he won’t run, and he doesn’t, only because it looks like he won’t be accusatory anymore. “C’mon man, what do you want from us?” He looks directly in Alfred’s eyes, calm and cool, unwavering. “It’s only cool to hang out with punks like Arthur for a little while-”

He recoils violently and demands, “What is so bad about Arthur?” But his question is ignored and made out to be like it was never asked. It just upsets him more and he can feel his muscles tensing as Magnus keeps going.

“-and here we are working our asses off to be the best wingmen possible.” Alfred fights the urge to say that he didn’t ask them to do that by clenching his jaw. Magnus shifts in his seat, making himself bigger, taking up more space. It feels like a punch to the gut, as if he is silently saying, _I’m going to win_. What he actually says is, “When was the last time you gave Emma the time of day? She is so into you and you keep brushing her off.”

“Oh my _God_!” He leaps to his feet, throwing a hand in the air for emphasis. His eyes are wide open and voice dripping with sarcastic amazement. “If you like her so much, why don’t _you_ take her to Winter Formal?” That’s only logical, after all, with as much as Magnus talks about her. He wouldn’t be surprised if Magnus actually _did_ have a crush on her - most guys openly admitted to having a crush on Emma - and was secretly jealous of Alfred? Was that it? Because other options didn’t make as much sense as that one.

“Sit down, Al,” Yong Soo hisses. “You’re making a scene.”

“ _I’m_ making a scene?”

Magnus gets up and bounds around the table and starts to manhandle Alfred into sitting back down, but he isn’t giving up so easily. “Just - sit - down!” They struggle against each other, grunting, before Alfred gets tired and pushes Magnus abruptly away. Magnus finds his balance with a huff and glares at him. “What’s with you? This is what you get when you hang out with a punk.”

Alfred feels like he’s going crazy. “What’s with you?” he challenges. “Why are you so bothered? Why can’t I be friends with Arthur? Why do you feel so threatened?”

Magnus sneers with foul twinkle in his eye. “I bet you would sit if _Arthur_ asked you.”

And it isn’t what he said that makes Alfred’s blood boil a little too hot, it’s the way he said it. He says Arthur's name like it’s a curse, a demon's name that shouldn’t be said - like Lord Voldemort from _Harry Potter_ , he-who-must-not-be-named. It sounds like a threat, harsh and ill-conceived, like it’s a test. Which it is, he knows it is because why else would Magnus have said it? He said it like Alfred would back down if he did, but backing down is far from his mind.

Maybe it’s because he feels a little too hot, or maybe from the stress of finals, or the stress of constantly being pressured into liking a girl he doesn’t like and being asked constantly when he’s going to ask her out, or maybe it's the the stress of having a crush he isn’t sure he’s supposed to have, but he can feel his skin tightening and exploding all at once and he doesn’t know what to do, what will help, so he does the thing he thinks might help him best.

He lashes out, his fist hitting Magnus straight across his face with a resounding _thwak!_

The cafeteria, which had been a buzzing of background noise, suddenly fell silent as Magnus stumbled into the table, hand raising to his red cheek in surprise. Off to the side, Yong Soo is standing, eyes bulging out of his head and arms raised like he had been ready to intercept should anything go wrong, but being too late. Alfred can feel a lot of wide eyes on him, but the only set he cares about are Magnus’s burning in anger.

And for a second, it feels like Magnus is going to fight back - he pushes up off the table, if that is any indication - but is stopped by a teacher who places herself in between them and fixes Alfred with a stern look. He knows he’s in a lot of trouble already.

Even still, he doesn’t regret it, not exactly.

* * *

 

   Yong Soo Choi and Magnus Christensen sat adjacent to him in the arcade. They had to go through a lot of hoops and special permissions to actually get on the rundown set, and the building really had seen better days. It had been cleaned up as best as it could for this interview, but it had been stripped many years ago. All of the gaming consoles and been removed, so the space was big and cavernous. There was a slight echo when they spoke. For an added atmospheric affect, the crew had brought in a single _Invasion of the Curroes_ console; it had been Alfred Jones’s favorite game.

The two men looked apprehensive to be back on set, but seemed at home in a way probably indescribable to them as well. They had spent their childhood here, Yong Soo Choi especially, and hadn’t returned before now. It must be as surreal as it looks.

“How does it feel to be back in this arcade,” Tino asks just to be cheeky.

“Unbelievable,” Choi muses, glancing around. “When we moved, I really thought I wouldn’t see it again.”

“Yeah,” Christensen chimes in. “It looks a lot different.” He smiles impishly. “But it’s incredible to be here. Thanks again for inviting us.”

Tino smiles in return and it seems to do the trick; Choi and Christensen relax a little more into their chairs. He asks his standard question when he’s sure they’re comfortable. “When did you see the end coming?”

They both look immediately guilty and tense up again. They share a sheepish look and are quiet so long Tino wonders if they’ll ever answer. Christensen pipes up first. “We - or I, I’m not sure about Yong Soo - but I didn’t want it to end.” He looks humbled, probably thinking back on his naivete. “I didn’t think it would, so I didn’t realize it was ending until, well, _the end_.”

“Not even when he punched you?” Choi teases. Christensen chuckles and Tino hesitantly smiles - he doesn’t find it very funny, but it is amusing. “I didn’t see it coming, either,” he admits when he’s had his fun. “I’m with Magnus on this. Not until the end.”

Christensen nods. “We were blind, I guess, to what was happening with Alfred. It didn’t click until that last night, though it really should have when he hit me. Which _hurt_ , by the way, in case you were wondering.” He rubs at his cheek as if he can feel the phantom pain.

Tino’s never been punched so he can’t imagine. He does his best to sympathize, but ends up saying, “Blind? Why do you think that?”

“We were just naive, bratty teenagers who had their heads stuck so far up our asses that we ignored our best friend in his most vulnerable time of need.” Christensen said this with with most sincere face he could muster. It seemed to Tino that this was something he really regretted.

Choi nodded in agreement and added, “We were supposed to be his best friends, and we weren’t. We didn’t even realize he was gay until the end!”

It hadn’t been something he had really discussed with his interviewees, so he took the chance. After all, Alfred Jones’s sexuality had been big talk at one time. “Ah, yes, about that, when did it click? When did you realize?” He leaned forward in interest because, honestly after rewatching the footage, it was pretty obvious.

Christenen wiped a hand across his mouth and hummed contemplatively. “It really wasn’t until the end,” he decided. “That’s how big of a dick I was. When Honda fed me the line ‘Arthur isn’t the one who’s going to keep you warm at night,’ it finally hit me that Alfred liked him - had a crush on him, right? So, if anybody’s wondering, that’s why I didn’t finish that line and why Yong Soo had to take over. Because that just wasn’t right.” _The Alfred F. Jones_ show had been notable for script writing as the events were really happening, and after talking to Mei Wang, Tino understood how important this aspect of the show had been. But so seldom did the actors actually talk about being fed lines, as most were improvisational. Though, Tino supposed, this was a critical time.

Next to him, Choi took over where Christensen left off. “My line after that was, ‘Arthur isn’t the one for you.’ And I didn’t even say it - I stopped because I came to the jarring realization that Alfred _wanted_ Arthur to be the one for him, and who was I to get in the way?” He pauses and Tino wonders how many hours of self-reflecting had brought him to that conclusion. Then his eyes light up with unbridled nostalgia; he continues, “And isn’t it incredible that both Magnus and I remember these lines a decade and a half later?”

“How could I forget?” Christensen said fervidly. “Jesus Christ, I felt _horrible_ in that moment. No other moment in my life have I felt that horrible.”

“I feel the same.” Choi and Christensen look at each other and an understanding passes between them that Tino can’t even begin to comprehend. He could never understand just how deeply they regretted not being a better friend to Alfred Jones.

* * *

 

   Alfred F. Jones was often described as a good boy. In fact, he was the best boy. The boy who could do no wrong, the friendly boy, the boy who smiles a lot and makes new friends in a snap. He was the boy every parent wanted as a son, the boy fathers wanted married to their daughters, the boy who was so good at being good that any wrong he did do was a mistake and was easily forgiven.

Even as a toddler, he was well behaved. Other children tended to hit when mad, but not him - he would just stomp his foot and get over it a few seconds later. If he was told not to do something, he wouldn’t do it. If he was told to do something, he would do it without hesitation and without delay.

As he grew older, he became obedient and complaisant. He would do as told, listen carefully, and never step out of line. He wouldn’t slack off on homework, would complete his chores, and if he was told he did something wrong, he would apologize and do his best to fix the problem. He never got grounded - there was no reason to be. He was a good kid.

He remembers when he first learned about swear words. He had asked about them and his mother scolded him and told him not to use them, that they were naughty words. He listened and refrained from using them, but sometimes he would slip up and a word would slip out. But nobody faulted him because that was far and few between and he would apologize immediately, anyway.

But he isn’t a saint, of course he isn’t. He’s gotten into arguments, but that’s all they were. There was no punch-throwing of any sort, he never let them get to that stage. Physically fighting was bad and he could get in trouble for it, so he resolved arguments before that could happen. Usually, he did this by relenting. He figured he didn’t need to win, that whatever was being argued over wasn’t worth the time, and he had other things to do. Sure, it made him out to be cowardly and passive, like he was a pushover, but he didn’t think about it much.

He was the president of not thinking about things.

He wonders if he had been too good throughout his life. Maybe he should have been more assertive, maybe that is why things had gone they way they had because he had hopped in the backseat of his own life in favor of other people manipulating him into being the way they wanted him to be.

Instead of becoming who he wanted to be, he had become a mirror image of himself tinted grey - grey, bland, boring, dull, good and perfect, shaped and molded by people other than himself. He felt as if he had no color in him because he’d never picked up his own paintbrush, never allowed himself to create his own path in life. Following a path that had been shown to him was not the same as making his own; as a good boy he had done what he was told and colored in the lines on a canvas that had been chosen for him. Now all he wanted was to express himself freely when he wanted, wherever he wanted, and save himself from the colorless life he had been living.

The first color he had chosen was green. Green felt good. Green was grass on a summer’s day, green was leaves on a tree in spring, green was calming and safe, green was pretty. For the first time in his life, he didn’t care that nobody else seemed to not like green. For the first time in his life, when he had been told to not use green, he used it anyway. And it felt good.

Alfred still wanted to be the good boy that his mother was proud of, that his mother fawned over, but he also wanted to be more than that. He wanted to be less passive, more aware, and in control of his own life. He wanted to be his own person, not the person who he was made out to be.

 

   To say that his mother is furious is putting it mildly.

He’s never seen her like this before and he doesn’t want to see her like this again, but he still can’t find it in him to regret his actions. He’s unrepentant, which admittedly might be making her mood worse.

They’re home now after spending time in Principal Hendrix’s office where he was suspended until after winter break, thereby missing his finals and being officially excluded from Winter Formal (which honestly might be the best thing to come out of this ordeal), and a terse and tense car ride home. She has him sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at the dark wood with a bored expression. He’s only slightly scared for what’s to come and he’s feeling a little meek, but there’s no way he’s going to let her know that.

She’s standing up across the table, hands on her hips, regarding him cooly. He wonders if she’s waiting for him to squirm or say something. He doesn’t plan on giving in. Eventually, she sighs roughly, almost like a groan, and runs a hand through her blonde locks. Alfred bites his cheek; he didn’t know she could sigh before saying anything at all. He takes it as a marker for a short conversation, but a part of him doesn’t want to let her get down to three. His eyes flick to hers for a brief moment and that’s all she needs to finally ask, “ _What_ on earth were you _thinking_ , Alfred Jones?”

His teeth press harder on his cheek because he can’t tell her that he had been thinking about punching his friend because his friend was being a jerk. That explanation won’t end well, so he keeps quiet.

“Did you even think about the consequences?” She places her hands flat on the table, leaning over it. He doesn’t move and hardly acknowledges that she had. Her scowl deepens. “No, I bet you didn’t. You can’t just _hit_ someone because you’re angry! I thought you knew this! I thought I taught you better than that, Alfred!” She stands up straight again and sighs harshly through her nose.

 _No_ , he thinks, because he’s really tired of hearing her sigh. He’s really tired of having a conversation ending because she thinks it’s over, because she wants it to be over, and because she wants it to be over in a certain way. He isn’t going to let her do that again, especially not now when he’s still angry about Magnus.

“What am I going to do with you, Alfred,” she asks, steely gaze returning to him only to be met by his own hard look.

He knows he’s being defiant, that that isn’t good, but he’s really tired of being compliant. He isn’t going to fight another battle only to lose again. “Why do anything,” he asks.

She blinks in surprise, angry mask falling for a fraction of a second before it returns with a vengeance. “Excuse me? Don’t use that tone of voice with me, Alfred, you are in a lot of trouble right now.” Her arms are back on her hips; she looks powerful like that, and he knows that’s the point, that with him sitting he’s supposed to be submissive to her parental control, but he finds he _doesn’t care_.

“Good,” he says. “I want to be.” He crosses his arms on the table and leans forward on them, challenging her to come closer again.

She scoffs before narrowing her eyes, her entire being looking like it was on edge. “And why is that,” she demands, voice firm and belittling. “What in your life is so troubling that you decide to hurt someone? I gave you a home, my love, and everything else you could ever need, and _this_ is how you repay me? Children act out and get into fights because they don’t receive enough love at home - are you trying to tell me this is _my_ fault, Alfred?” She doesn’t sound like she thinks it is, but he knows she wouldn’t ask if she didn’t think that there was a possibility. And it hurts to think he’s hurt her like that because it _isn’t_ her fault. (Maybe a little, but not that much, and he doesn’t even know anymore because he has a lot of problems with a lot of things and narrowing it down to percentages is a waste of time.)

He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down, but before he starts he knows it didn’t help much. “No, it’s not.” He drums his fingers on the table, stalling for something to say. There isn’t much he can do, but he just knows that she can’t sigh again, he can’t take it. “It’s my fault. I admit it. But I am not sorry.” She starts to say something, so he quickly says something else, louder than her. “I feel like I’m losing my mind, okay?” He heaves a sigh of his own, full of frustration and desperation to be heard. She’s looking at him like she wants to say something, but she mercifully remains silent. “It seems like nothing I say matters. Everything I feel and think and express is ignored in favor somebody doing what they think is best for me. And what do they know? Nothing! Because if they did, they would know not to do that. So, yes, okay, I got tired of being treated like dirt from my friends, treated like my opinion didn’t matter, treated like I was mute and they were deaf or _whatever_ because he wasn’t listening to me! So I punched him! And hopefully now he understands, maybe now he’s thought back to all the times he heard my voice without listening to my words and how _wrong_ he was for doing that.” His heart is pounding, he can hear the rush in his ears, and he’s huffing, but his mom is just standing there. She hadn’t moved a finger. He wonders if she’d heard his voice without listening to his words.

Her lips purse and she shifts her weight. “Did you even give him a chance to explain himself, Alfred?” Ah. So she hadn’t listened. His jaw clenches as he fights against his body’s response to make his eyes go watery. If he was going to cry, it wouldn’t be in front of her. Not when she hadn’t listened. “Look,” she continues and her mouth opens in just the right way and he know it’s coming, the third sigh he doesn’t want to hear.

“Whatever,” he says briskly, standing up quickly to cut her off. The chair scrapes against the floor violently, a noise too loud for even his ears. He starts for his room; she had already grounded him until college in the car, so there really wasn’t anything left for her to say.

She calls after him anyway. “This conversation is not over, Alfred Jones. Come here.”

He ignores her and shuts his door behind him. It takes him too long to will away the tears in his eyes, but somehow he manages.

 

   Two days later, Alfred finds himself not doing much. He’s grounded and hasn’t bothered to leave his room; the only thing he’d eaten since breakfast yesterday was an apple Matthew had brought him that morning before he left for school; it’s a half-day due to finals, so he should be home in an hour. He’s sitting at his desk, scrapbook open, rereading the articles and obituaries because he has nothing better to do.

 _Lifeguard Tragically Drowns in Sunday’s Storm_ , one title reads. Another: _Boating Trip Gone Wrong, Caught in Storm_. The obituary his mother put out has the title _George Jones: Husband, Father, Friend, Dearly Missed_.

The more he reads the words she wrote about her husband, the more unreal they become to Alfred. The more he reads the articles, all detailing the same thing, the more he can’t help but feel that his dad’s death was preventable. (Or, more morbidly, that it wasn’t an accident.) His father and Mr. Franklin had set out for a boating trip on Sunday, but there was a storm, and his father fell overboard drowned. The more he repeats the story to himself, the less he believes it.

On maybe his fifth read/look through of the entire scrapbook, his mother’s voice calls out to him. “Alfred,” she says. “I’m going grocery shopping. Stay as you are; there’s enough food here to make a sandwich when you’re hungry. I’ll be back later, okay?” He doesn’t respond and he knows that’s rude, but he continues to flip through his book without regret. He hears her leave.

She isn’t gone long before he starts thinking how, though he’s collected just about every article he could, he’s never actually bothered talking to Mr. Franklin about it. His best friend had died, Alfred’s dad, and as far as he knew, Mr. Franklin had never talked about it to anyone, only enough to give a statement to the police about the bare basics of what happened.

Mr. Franklin probably knows what George Jones’s last words were.

He looks at the clock on his desk and determines he has about an hour, maybe an hour and a half before his mother returns. He has enough time and that makes him downright jittery. Before he can think twice, he has his shoes on and is halfway out the door.

As if he couldn’t already be in more trouble. He’s never really been grounded before, but he’s pretty sure that sneaking out of the house while his mom is gone definitely breaks the rules. He isn’t deterred, however, and walks as quickly as possible to his destination, which is quite a ways away. Mr. Franklin lived on the other side of the high school, but it wasn’t like he lived on the other side of town, so he made it there without too much of a hassle.

His breath stutters as he raises a fist to knock, the reality of the situation dawning upon him. Mr. Franklin definitely knows he’s grounded and would probably call his mom in a heartbeat to tell her that he’d snuck out (not that she is currently at home, but there’s always the possibility of later). He almost turns around and goes back home before he can be found out, but he swallows the nervous lump in his throat, and knocks.

There is a long pause and for a minute he wonders if nobody’s home, but, yeah, there’s a car in the driveway. He knocks again and waits and waits. This is a sign from the universe to leave. One last time he raises his hand to knock again, but the door is pulled open. Mr. Franklin is standing there flushed and sweaty, like he had been running or something, his clothes are in a bit of a disarray, and it seems that he hasn’t combed his hair this morning. Alfred’s pretty sure he caught him at a bad time, but there isn’t anything he can do about that now. Especially when Mr. Franklin has already seen him, and _boy_ is he surprised. His jaw has fallen slack and there’s a look in his eyes that Alfred can’t quite explain, a cross between shock and fear, but there’s nothing around to be afraid of.

“Alfred,” he exclaims when he recovers. “What’re you doing here?” He glances over to his right as if to check something and Alfred’s eyes follow, but he doesn’t see anything, and Mr. Franklin’s attention is back on him, leaning against the doorframe.

“I wanted to ask a question,” he replied awkwardly, swaying back on his heels. This was a mistake and he should have stayed home and he probably should have called instead - oh, dear God, _why_ hadn’t he called instead? - but there was no turning back.

Mr. Franklin nods warily. “Uh-huh. Aren’t you... grounded?” Alfred flinches and nods his head. “You realize I’m going to have to tell your mom.”

A heavy frown finds itself stuck on his face and he looks down at their feet before saying, “She went to the grocery store, so you’ll have to wait a bit before you can call.” He looks back up to see an unamused expression staring back at him and takes a deep breath. “Anyway, about my question-”

“Did you really come here just to ask a question?” His arms are crossed over his chest, extremely unimpressed, and Alfred can’t tell if he’s acting like that because he knows Alfred shouldn’t be here or because Alfred caught him at a bad time. He regards him for a moment longer before sighing and makes a motion with his hand telling him he can ask.

He clears his throat and straightens his spine, shoulders easing back. He stares Mr. Franklin dead in the eyes and asks, “What were my father’s last words?”

It’s really something watching Mr. Franklin flounder, jaw dropping farther than it had when he had realized who was at his door, eyes growing wide, and not appearing to breathe. Alfred wonders if he can even remember _how_ to breathe because his body became so still. He holds still just long enough for him to begin to squirm under his flabbergasted gaze and breaks eye-contact. Alfred flicks his eyes to look just over Mr. Franklin’s shoulder and, astonishingly, they catch on something.

Tilting his head, he asked, “Isn’t that my mom’s coat?”

Mr. Franklin flinches away from the doorframe so hard that Alfred thinks he might have hit his elbow or something and glances back to where Alfred’s mother’s coat is innocently resting against the back of a chair. “Oh,” he says, breathy. “She… left that… the last time she was here. I keep meaning to call her about it, but….”

“Ah. I can take it back with me.” He smiles for added effect. It’s just like his mother to forget her jacket. “I doubt she’s noticed it's gone, and she won’t notice if it reappears.” He starts to move into the house to retrieve it, but Mr. Franklin shoots out an arm to stop him one foot in the doorway.

“I’ll get it,” he all but shouts and hastily makes his way to the chair. Alfred feels like physically reeling back in surprise at the raised voice, but he notices a discarded pair of women’s plain brown shoes off to the side of the chair and forgets all about his surprise in turn for curiosity. But his gaze doesn’t linger because he doesn’t want to call attention to it. It isn’t any of his business.

He steps all the way into the house as Mr. Franklin returns, just so he isn’t awkwardly standing in between. He takes the coat in his arms and says thanks. Mr. Franklin nods pointedly and places his hand on the door as if to kindly say, “Please leave.” But Alfred hadn’t come for a coat so he reminds him with a tight smile, “You haven’t answered my question.”

Mr. Franklin’s breath catches and his hand clutches tighter on the door. “It’s been a long time, Alfred,” he says through his teeth. “I don’t like being reminded.” Alfred thinks that might be the best he’s going to get, but he wants more. He looks down at the coat in his arms and considers his options, doing his best to look left and right surreptitiously in hopes of seeing something that might help him. And he sees something all right, but it isn't something he’d been hoping to see.

Over in the hallway leading to where he knows Mr. Franklin’s room is located is a bra, laying twistedly on the carpet in all of its glory. His eyes snap back onto the coat in an instant and he knows with certainty that he’s overstayed his welcome.

“Anything at all?” He tries in vain one last time for _something_ , _anything_. But his skin is crawling and Mr. Franklin is looking more anxious and uncomfortable as the seconds tick by.

Mr. Franklin sighs, tension draining from the hand on the door. “He was talking about getting you a bike for your birthday before the storm came.” He looks away from Alfred. “I’m sorry, that’s all I remember. But you need to go home now.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay.”

When the door has been shut firmly behind him, he finds himself staring at it. It takes a few seconds for it to break away and against his will, he stares forlornly down at the coat, and then back at the door, and then he doesn’t look back at all as he leaves.

 

   The wind is biting and his nose is turning red. It’s winter, all right, and the jacket he had left the house in was not much of a help against it. The coat in his arms, however, is warm and is keeping his front warm while his back suffers. He’s slower returning home, too much on his mind to walk properly.

He thinks back to his ninth birthday, when his mother had gotten him a bike. That birthday had felt hollow and empty and receiving a bike as a present had made his heart crack - on TV, children were taught to ride bikes by their fathers. He had no father to teach him anymore. Every Father’s Day that had come around since then, just a few weeks before his birthday, was a reminder of that.

Alfred isn’t nine years old anymore, though. He knows how to ride a bike, thanks to his mom and Mr. Franklin. He knows a lot more than that, too, a lot more than he did at nine. His mind flashes back to the bra on the floor and he shivers. There’s no proof as to who’s it is, or to whom those plain brown shoes belong to, but his mind can’t stop conjuring images of Mr. Franklin and his mom laughing together, brushing hands, getting lunch every odd day.

His feet are carrying him on autopilot by now because he’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice until he hears his name being called. The feet that had been moving automatically stop abruptly as his head turns to look at the house he stopped in front of, or rather the person on the porch. Arthur is sitting on an old wooden rocking chair, book in his lap still open like he had dropped it there in surprise. A backpack rested next to the chair, which told Alfred that Matthew was already back at home and he should really hurry on, but there’s no way he isn’t going to stop to talk to Arthur. His pretty green eyes are locked onto Alfred’s and there is excitement in them, an excitement that then transfers over into Alfred’s own eyes and brightens his day. He can feel a soft smile find its way onto his lips as he steps off the sidewalk and onto Arthur’s lawn, closer to the porch’s railing. Arthur, too, gets up and sets his still open book on the chair before taking a step to lean against the rail.

“Hello,” Arthur says, a smile of his own gracing his lips, shaping the word into something beautiful.

“Hi,” Alfred breathes, stopping a foot short of the rail. He wants to get closer but fears that that might be too much.

“What’re you doing here?” Arthur glances up and down the street in a cursory manner before leaning in closer, making Alfred inch in as well. His voice drops lower, hushing, like it’s a secret. “I heard you got suspended. Were you not grounded?”

Alfred’s smile goes sheepish. “I was,” he admits. “Don’t tell my mom I was here.”

His joke has the desired affect; Arthur chuckles and Alfred wants to drown in the sound. It tapers away into an impish smirk. “I think I’ll snitch, actually,” he says. “What’s your home number? I’ll give her a call.” Their grins grow wider, eyes twinkling. They smile at each other until their faces hurt in companionable silence.

“What’re you reading?” he asks eventually because he doesn’t want to leave.

Arthur glances back at the book resting on the chair. “Oh, nothing important.” He fixes him with a serious stare, but there’s also uncertainty there. “Listen, Alfred. I - my family and I are moving back to England.”

The world stops, his heart freezes, and he’s so taken aback that it’s about a minute or two before he can remember how to speak. “W-What?” he asks for lack of anything better. “When?” If it was possible to really make time stop, he would do it, just to stay by Arthur a little while longer.

He tugs uncomfortably at an ear piercing. “Our flight leaves Saturday morning.” He sighs and lets go of his ear. He looks nothing but apologetic “I’m sorry, I meant to tell you earlier, but I - I - is it weird to say I didn’t want to say good-bye?”

He looks down at his shoes and clutches the coat tighter to him. “I don’t want to say good-bye either.” His voice is small, so he wonders if Arthur can even hear him, but he doesn’t chance a look up to see. He’s too scared.

They fall into silence, neither knowing what to say. What was there to say, anyway? Both of them were helpless in trying to change the situation.

“I’m going to miss this house,” Arthur admits after the silence stretches out for far too long. A hand pats the railing. “My room…. School, the market, the library, that arcade… everything.”

“Why _aren’t_ you in your room?” Not that Alfred is really complaining because, after all, he got to see Arthur one last time, is able to say good-bye. But it is winter and inside must be infinitely warmer than out here. “Why the porch? It’s cold out here.”

Arthur chuckles, tilting his head. “Better view. The backyard isn’t that exciting.”

“Oh.” They’re so close. He can’t remember moving closer, but he must have because he’s craning his neck up to adjust for the porch’s extra six inches and his hands are resting on two vertical support bars. Arthur’s face is too close to his, and he thinks Arthur realizes this too, but neither pull away. Those pretty green eyes are staring down at him with such yearning it makes his heart ache. Arthur shuffles impossibly closer to the railing and Alfred can feel jeans brush up against where his fingers are, making his breath hitch and grip tighten before he could do something incredibly stupid. They stay like that, sharing breath, for who knows how long, mesmerized by each other, hopelessly lost in the other’s eyes.

A call of “Arthur!” from inside the house breaks the atmosphere.

He pulls away from the railing in a flash and Alfred wants to reach after him. “I should go.” He glances towards the front door as if he expects someone to be there.

“But...” He isn’t ready to say good-bye. There’s so much he wants to do, wants to say; if he had known his relationship with Arthur had a time limit, then he would have done all of the things he wanted to do and more. Namely, hold his hand and spend more time with him, going for walks, reading more books (or, really, having them read to him), and holding him close.

Arthur looks at him with all the regret and sorrow in the world. “I know.” Alfred wants to cry because he’s just realized for the first time that maybe Arthur wants to hold _his_ hand again and go for walks and read more books and spend more time together.

This, however, is not the time to bring that up, especially when he already has a lot on his mind. He’s stressed, emotionally compromised, and all around having a pretty foul week. So he says, “Have a safe flight.” He wonders if he looks as forlorn as that sounded.

“Thanks.” His smile looks more like a grimace, but it’s appreciated nonetheless.

Alfred tries his own hand at a smile, but he doesn’t think he does it right. “Bye, Arthur.”

“Good-bye, Alfred.”

 

   He is home for all of five minutes when his mother comes back. He had set her coat on a hanger in her closet as soon as he had gotten home and is now laying on his bed, staring at the cieling, mind racing. Matthew had given him a disapproving look, but hadn’t berated him and left him alone. He hears his mom unpacking the groceries, hears Matthew helping her, and then hears her come to his room. He sits up in bed and braces himself for whatever she wants - probably about not helping put away the groceries, or wondering if he ate, or anything else that’s mundane.

She opens his door without knocking and steps in. “Did you have a nice walk,” she asked in way of greeting.

His heart skips a beat and his breath stills. He looks at her with wide eyes, mouth dry, words only half-formed. “Wha….?” Did Matthew rat him out? He usually didn’t do that and Alfred hadn’t heard him say anything.

She scowls. “Don’t play dumb with me, young man. Mr. Franklin called.” That’s funny because he hadn’t heard the phone ring. She mistakes his confused frown for something else, most likely anger or disgust, and matches him tenfold. “Do you not respect me, Alfred Jones? I don’t understand why you would disobey me like that.”

He looks away from her, instead turning to stare at the wall next to her. He has nothing to say to her, or maybe he doesn’t know what to say to her, but in any case, he doesn’t say anything.

“Are you going to answer me,” she demands. His eyes roam from the wall down to her feet. Her feet, clothed in plain brown shoes. He gasps, tiny and unassuming, because those are most definitely the shoes he had seen earlier in Mr. Franklin’s house. His hands form a fist, not knowing to do with the anger that flares inside. His mother is still speaking. “Did I do something wrong to earn your disrespect,” she asks.

“You turned into Gertrude,” he mutters under his breath. She doesn’t appear to hear him and continues on with her rant. He sits and takes it and only relaxes when she gives up and exits.

He’s happy to see her go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anime Expo Day 4! Happy Independence Day! What better way to celebrate Independence Day than by reading about how America gained his independence from... Japan.... Yesterday was super fun - I finally shopped around lol, did karaoke again, and then saw the dance exhibition. That was basically it. :P I don't know what I'll get up to today, but I know I'll have a blast (get it? lol because of the fireworks tonight) and it was overall a wonderful con (again) and I already can't wait to go next year!
> 
> This is the last chapter. I sincerely hope you like it because, guys, the response has been amazing. You guys and your likes and comments and stuff - jeez, they're the highlight of my day, even at the expo. Tell me what you think at the end of this, yeah? I want to hear your thoughts. Love you all! (Also, fun fact! this is like the longest fic/story I've ever written :P) Have a sensational day! :)

   Tino did not have any children. Maybe one day, but as it was currently, he had yet to know what being a father was like, what it felt like to love a child as his own. For that reason, Tino thinks this next interview was going to be enlightening.

After more hoops and express permissions, Tino and the two interviewees were seated in the family room of Alfred Jones’s childhood home. On the couch before him sat two aging people. One, a man in his sixties - George Hancock, the man who had been cast as Jones’s father. The other, a woman in her late fifties - Martha Norris, the woman who had been cast as Jones’s mother. When they had first arrived at the home, Norris had started to tear up. Thankfully, she managed to calm herself before they officially started filming, so no real time had been taken up.

Tino wasted no time when he’s told to get started. “What was it like being Alfred Jones’s parents? Commonly you were referred to as being the country’s parents. What was it like having that responsibility?” The two questions don’t seem to faze either of them; they answer with practiced ease.

“I was honored to be his father,” Hancock said smiling. “The only reason I agreed to ‘die’ was because I knew that he’d be all right without me and millions of kids across the nation would be able to see themselves on TV, a child growing up with only one parent because the other had died.” He paused and considered his next words. “It was difficult, though, leaving him behind. I loved him, still do, and I didn’t want to see him hurt, but when it came down to it - it was the higher up’s decision. Knowing I could turn on my TV and see him helped… though it didn’t really help for him.”

Norris reached over and patted his hand before looking up at Tino and answering. “Being Alfred’s mother was the highlight of my life. I can’t have children of my own and when this job popped up, I was over the moon.” Her eyes lit up with memories and her smile went soft. “I know I wasn’t perfect, but I tried my hardest to be the best mom possible, and he was such a wonderful little boy.” Her eyes start to go misty, so Tino launches right into the next question.

“Did the idea of violation of privacy ever cross your minds during filming?”

Hancock frowns and shifts back. “I never really saw it that way. Whether a child can appear on TV or not is up to its parents and, in this case, Alfred’s ‘parent’ was a corporation who put him on TV.” Alfred Jones had been the only child ever to be adopted by a corporation which is how Honda Productions had gotten over that disagreement for so long.

Norris nods her head. “It wasn’t like the cameras followed him in the shower. I thought of it more like it was a massive diary being kept.”

Tino waits a moment to make sure that they’re done speaking before asking his most difficult question. “Now, I know you weren’t there, Mr. Hancock - and I’ll get to you in a moment, Mrs. Norris - but what did you think of the end of the show?” As far as he knew, Hancock had never been asked this question because it wasn’t directly related to him, but Tino wanted his perspective, the ‘dead’ father’s perspective.

On the couch, Hancock shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. “I was… heartbroken, I guess, there’s no other word for it.” His eyes come to rest on his lap and he fiddles with his hands. “I’d been watching Alfred for his entire life and for it to fall apart around him like that… I felt helpless and incredibly guilty.”

“And what about you, Mrs. Norris,” Tino asks, looking at her when it appears Hancock has become too overcome with emotion to speak.

“I….” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She holds for a few seconds before exhaling and opening her eyes again. “It shouldn’t have ended like that. For years, I tried to blame other people for what had happened; it took me a long time to realize I was to blame just as much as anybody else.” Her eyes start tearing up again and Tino tenses. If she starts crying, there was a high chance that _he_ would start crying, and he’d rather not. “But that last night… when he came home, I didn’t know what to think. Everything happened so fast that by the time it was over, I couldn’t comprehend what had happened. I just remember thinking that - that I had failed him.” A tear slips down her cheek, and then another and another, and then Hancock places an arm around her shoulders and she allows herself to be pulled against him before she starts full on sobbing.

Tino has to look away.

* * *

 

   Love wasn’t something he thought about often. It was just something he took for granted.

He loved his mom. Through all of her faults and his recent frustrations with her, he doesn’t think that he could ever stop loving her. It was ingrained into his being to love her. And just as he loves her, she loves him too. They told each other “I love you” as often as other parent and child did, but he doesn’t think he has ever stopped to consider how much he loved her, or how much she loved him. It was unconditional in his opinion, something that would never end, and in that way he took it for granted.

He loved Matthew. This, he definitely didn’t think about all too often. His brother had always had his back, never judged him, and did his best to protect him like an older brother does (three days older, but still). He doesn’t tell Matthew that he loves him enough. He should say it more than he does, because he loves him a lot. _When_ that love developed, he isn’t quite sure, but the years had passed without realizing it and he had gained a brother. The love between him and Matthew was unconditional, or so he felt, something that had sturdy walls holding it up, and in that way he took it for granted.

He loved his friends. Well, he’s pretty sure he does. He’s never really thought about it, but they were like brothers he had had by his side since forever. They might not get along all the time, but Magnus and Yong Soo had familiar presences and he doesn’t know what he would do without them. He’s sure they feel the same about him, otherwise why would they stick around? They had a friendly love, one that wavered but never broke, and in that way he took it for granted.

He loved his dad. It was an unconditional love while it was there, an unconditional love he had thought wouldn’t wash away with the sea because it _was_ the sea, big and deep, and in that way he had taken it for granted.

Losing his father was a lesson in love. Because while he still loved his father, he wasn’t sure anymore that his father could love him back beyond the grave. People always talked about how his dad wasn’t really gone because he lived in his heart, that his father still loved him up in heaven, and while Alfred believed them, he couldn’t help but think that giving love, rather than receiving it, had an expiration date. Those people kept saying, “You’re father loved you,” not “Your father loves you.”

Alfred only had so much time to love people and feel their love.

He doesn’t love Arthur. But he definitely likes him. He feels that he _could_ love Arthur if given enough time. The way he feels about Arthur isn’t the way he feels about his mom, or Matthew, or Magnus and Yong Soo. It’s so radically different that he’s blown away by the feeling. And yet, sometimes, it’s not so different at all. He wants to support Arthur, keep him company, not judge him and not be judged by him. He wants to hold him, and kiss him, and go on dates with him, and do everything couples do - like couples out on the street, or couples on TV, in the movies, he didn’t care where. It could be a new kind of love, the first of its kind in New Haven, one that he hopes he won’t take for granted.

But it’s a love only Alfred has. Unless he does something about it.

 

   He really shouldn’t be thinking about it. He really shouldn’t be thinking about something that could get him into _more_ trouble than he’s already in.

The clock on his desk tells him Winter Formal started about an hour ago. He had had dinner around that time. His mom is watching TV in the family room and he’s pretty sure Matthew’s in his room. For the past hour, he’s been contemplating sneaking out again. And it’s so bad to say, but he’s really tempted to, consequences be damned.

Arthur is leaving on a plane in the morning. If Alfred doesn’t leave now, he’ll never see him again. It’s now or never and the fear of rejection is stronger than the fear of being grounded until he’s fifty. But he can’t justify not telling Arthur how he feels, and most of his reasons are selfish, but feelings are inherently selfish.

He’s tries his best not to think too hard as he leans an ear against the door. The TV _is_ on, louder than it needs to be, and that’s all the confidence he needs to put on his shoes and a warm coat before he’s prying open his bedroom window as quietly as he can. When he has it open, he climbs out and shuts it mostly closed, but not all the way. Then he’s off.

It is hellishly cold outside. But he pushes through and walks faster to build up body heat. He passes by the high school and barely acknowledges the music thrumming from inside the gym. He keeps going until he reaches Arthur’s house. It hadn’t changed much from the last time he saw it, not that he expected it to, and quickly analyzes the best way to get around to the back without a person seeing him pass by a window.

He ducks down to stay undetected and creeps silently pass what he assumes to be the family room window; the light is on, but he doesn’t check to see if people are in it. He can only pray that Arthur is in his room. When he’s around the back, there are three windows - one on a door, a small one high up, and one that has light coming out of it. Quickly, he goes towards the light and hopes his prayers have been answered.

They have and he lightly knocks on the window. Arthur appears in an instant, a call of “Alfred?” on his lips, muffled by the glass. He opens the window and continues speaking, “What on Earth are you here for?”

“I wanted to see you one last time,” he admits. He hopes he doesn’t sound crazy because Arthur is staring at him with enough disbelief to last him a lifetime.

“Aren’t you still grounded?”

He grimaces and nods. “Yeah, I am. But I figured it was worth it.” Arthur looks taken aback, like he can’t believe he’s worth being grounded over. Which isn’t really much of a compliment, but it was never intended to be anyway. “Sneak out with me,” he suggests and this is the moment of truth.

“What?” He fixes Alfred with a hard stare. “So I can be grounded, too?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” His limbs are buzzing with adrenaline and he feels like bouncing off the walls. It’s still cold and standing still is definitely not helping.

Arthur sighs, frustrated. “That’s not - look, I’m not here so you can have some kind of teenage rebellion-”

“If this was teenage rebellion, would I have listened to you talk about Shakespeare?” He tries his best not to let on how insulted he feels because he still needs to convince him to come out with him. For his part, Arthur looks chastened. “Please. Just for a walk.”

“I need to get up early tomorrow,” he says by way of an excuse, throwing a look over his shoulder at his bedroom door. Alfred understands that anxiousness, but he isn’t going to relent.

“You can sleep on the plane,” he says with a smile.

His smile is met by a scrutinizing look. “I may come to regret this.”

“I sure hope not.”

It’s silent for a moment and Alfred wonders if he really _will_ turn him down, but he says, “Let me grab a coat,” and turns away to start.

Alfred can barely contain his victory dance, but somehow he manages. As gracefully as he can, Arthur climbs out his window and they both sneak around the house to start their walk. He has no intention of taking up too much of Arthur’s time, but just a little will be enough.

Their trip down the street back to where the high school is calm enough, but when they reach the corner to Main Street, Arthur grabs his arm and stops him. “Follow me,” he says seriously and Alfred only has a moment to nod before they’re running down the street, making twists and turns, ducking behind bushes and trash cans, sometimes feigning to go a certain direction before doubling back. It’s confusing and wild and he doesn’t understand why they’re doing it, but he goes along anyway.

Arthur finally slows down when they’re behind a shoe shop over on Polk Avenue, about a mile or two from the high school. They’re both panting, and Alfred watches their breath smoke up and away into the dark night. He glances up into Arthur’s eyes, alight with excitement, and he can’t help but smile. The smile turns into a breathy laugh and Arthur joins in.

“Sorry,” he says after a while. “That was weird, I know, but I didn’t want anybody to follow us.”

It’s an odd choice of words - it’s after nine o’clock in New Haven, not many people are out and about and a lot of businesses had already closed for the night. But Alfred doesn’t ponder on it for too long. “‘S’okay,” he says. “I don’t mind.” He nods his head quickly, silently asking to walk and Arthur follows.

He feels calm again, the feeling seeping into his skin like a breath of air. It’s cold out, but with Arthur next to him, he feels warm. They walk side by side behind the shoe shoppe, which turns into the bookstore, and so on. He can feel his hand brushing against Arthur’s every once and awhile, sending sparks up his arm, and he wonders if it would be too much to take it in his.

Before that thought has fully formed, however, Arthur's hand wraps around his, shyly, like it isn’t sure it can. “Is this okay,” Arthur asks, squeezing his hand a little.

“Yes,” Alfred whispers back, gripping the hand in his a smidgen tighter. He didn’t think he would ever want to let go. His heart is up in his throat, but he’s getting used to the feeling of it being there. He just hopes it’s cool enough outside that his palm isn’t sweaty.

They continue on in amicable silence, their hands swinging slightly between them. Alfred can’t be bothered to contain the joy on his face, a smile stretching from ear to ear. He thinks his cheeks are pink, but so is his nose, so maybe he can blame it on the cold. A peek over at Arthur’s own face tells him that he is similarly affected.

When they pass the ice rink, which had opened about a week or two ago, he figures that if there is ever going to be a time to tell Arthur how he feels, it may as well be now. He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves and goes for it. “Arthur?” Pretty green eyes meet his. “I, um, I like you.” His voice is too small, too quiet, he wonders for a second if Arthur even heard.

In that moment, his face looks vulnerable, elated, and sorrowful all at once. His shoulders sag and Alfred prepares him for rejection. “That’s not fair,” Arthur says with a pout. “Alfred, I’m _leaving_ tomorrow and you’ve just given me one more reason why I want to stay.”

His heart skips a beat and his breath hitches. He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and stammers out, “D-Do you…?”

“Like you, too?” Arthur finishes, a small and beautiful smile gracing his lips. There’s a blush highlighting his cheeks and Alfred thinks he might melt. “Yeah, I do.”

Startled laughter fills the cold air; Alfred is buzzing, heart beating quickly, tingling from head to toe. It’s a feeling he doesn’t ever want to lose, something he wants to wrap himself in like a blanket and never let go of. “That’s incredible!” he crows, smiling brightly at Arthur who has his own joyous grin.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It’s a shame that we don’t have more time.”

He purses his lips and tries not to let the reality of the situation affect his mood too bad. If this is all the time he’s going to get with Arthur, he’s going to make the most of it. “We have tonight,” he tells him decisively. “So let’s make it a good one.” Arthur nods, pretty green eyes alight, and squeezes his hand. Alfred squeezes back and they continue on with their walk around town.

They avoid the main street, sticking behind buildings and in shadows, and it offers a silence, a tranquility like no other. It feels like they’re the only two in the world and Alfred wouldn’t want it any other way. The farther they walk away from the center of town, the closer they get to the ocean and Alfred feels the sea breeze tussle his air, chilling him even through layers of clothing. Still, they end up on the beach, walking on the sand.

Alfred doesn't want to ever go home and he voices this thought to Arthur who agrees with him. After some time walking, they sit as close to the water as they dare, shoulder to shoulder, hands intermingling on the cold sand. He half wishes it was warm enough so he could take off his shoes and dig his toes into the sand, half wishes that they had come here together when it was warm enough to actually have some fun, rather than just sit in the cold. But the crashing of the waves is calming, soothing, like a long forgotten lullaby, and here with Arthur, the night air felt magical.

They sit there for an indeterminable amount of time, listening to the waves, feeling the chill breeze on their rosy cheeks, enjoying the night for simply what it was. Tranquil and without end. They exist in their own bubble adjacent to the real world, if only for the time being, and it is invincible, unpoppable by any disturbance. It’s just them two, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, with a budding relationship that would end all too fast.

“How much time do you think has passed?” Alfred asks at some point later. He’s been lost in the feeling of Arthur’s hand in his and he can’t remember how long he had been gone like that, if it was a few minutes or a few hours. The temperature hadn’t changed all that much, but temperature in New Haven didn’t fluctuate wildly like it did in other places (according to television).

Arthur hums quietly. “I don’t know,” he muses, leaning a little bit closer to him. “The dance could be over and we’d be none the wiser.”

By some miracle, he had forgotten about Winter Formal in the time he had been with Arthur. It felt nice for what had been a stressor drift away in the wind, completely forgotten. This time with Arthur was infinitely better than being there in the gym, dancing uncomfortably with whatever girl had been hand-picked for him by his mom and friends. There’s no better way to finish the first semester, in his opinion.

Oh, wow, it’s been that long hasn’t it? “I can’t believe half the school year is over,” he says in wonder. Only half a year left until the summer. A summer without Arthur. “Where did that time go?”

“Not spent wisely enough. How dreadful that I’ve just learnt that I could have held your hand whenever I pleased.” He sighs and punctuates this by gripping a little tighter, sand caught between their hands, smooshing coarsely between their skin. Alfred grips back tighter as well.

“You, too, huh?” He laughs a little, ironically, because it really was a shame.

“Just so.” His eyes are cast downward and Alfred wonders how he can get them to look into his. His voice goes soft and quiet, a secret caught in his throat and he yearns to learn what it is. “I wonder… what else I could have done if we had confessed earlier.”

An eyebrow is raised, intensely curious. “Like?”

“I… that is…. Kiss you.”

Even in the dark, Alfred can tell Arthur has colored a fierce shade of pink, and he’s pretty sure his own face matches. His throat has gone dry, palms clammy - cold night or not - and his heart feels like it might pound out of his chest, or at least break his ribs in its severity. Arthur has raised his pretty green eyes to his and Alfred can feel himself get lost in them again, drowning in a sea of green as the waves continue to roar and lap at the shore.

He swallows thickly because the idea is in his head and it won’t leave. He smiles tentatively, feeling lighter than air as he speaks his next words carefully. “ _Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do as hands do_.”

It has the desired effect. Arthur snorts and they start giggling like children on the schoolyard. They’re so close, their laughter mixing together in the small space between them, falling and catching in the breeze, flying off and leaving them with nothing but themselves and their conjoined hands. Their chuckling fades away into little breathy laughs, the aftershocks of what their giggling had been, light and fluffy and still full of life and giddiness, as they lean closer and press their lips together. It’s so blissfully happy, the feeling of finally being closer than they had before, still sniggering, that Alfred has trouble discerning which laugh is his and which is Arthur’s when their lips are pressed together. They pull back and he swears Arthur's eyes are shining brighter than the moon. Their smiles are wide, the air is electric, and in that moment everything seemed perfect and beautiful in every way.

“ _You kiss by th’ book_ ,” Arthur teases, which sends them both into another fit of snickering. Alfred doesn’t know why it took him so long to realize he liked him when things just came so easily.

And even though things had been going according to plan (and beyond), that couldn’t last. He doesn’t even think it’s been five minutes since their kiss - his _first_ kiss - when the headlights of a car pierce through their bubble. He flinches away from the sudden intrusion unto his eyes and he feels Arthur do the same, hand tightening on his as they turned hesitantly, squinting their eyes and watch as the car parks in front of them. Arthur’s hand unclasps itself from his and he pulls away as far as he thinks is acceptable and Alfred laments the space between them for a fraction of a second before a burly older man steps out of the car.

Alfred can’t see his face, but he expects it’s serious. Not that they’re doing anything explicitly wrong, but it is pretty late at night and they had been sitting in the dark for who knows how long. The man steps around the car door but doesn’t close it and crosses his arms.

“And just what do you think you’re doing,” he asks, his voice is deep and he has an accent - an English one and it hits Alfred just how much trouble he’s causing.

Arthur stands abruptly, face pale and Alfred follows, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Arthur beats him to speaking first. “Nothing,” he says quickly, holding up his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“Damn right ‘nothing.’ Get in the car.” Alfred’s eyes have adjusted and he can definitely see Arthur’s father scowling now, impatient and very angry.

“I -” Arthur glanes at him and then back at his father, quick as anything. “Just - a moment.” He turns to him like he has something to say, but before he can, his father has stepped between them, his large frame blocking Arthur from his view.

His voice is as harsh as a rock, strong and demanding. “Do you know how worried your mum is at the moment?” He puts a hand on a shoulder and starts steering him away. “Get in the car, Arthur!” Arthur stumbles a little at the manhandling and looks desperately back at Alfred.

Alfred, for his part, is at a loss at what to do. This is all his fault, he should have never snuck out in the first place, and he _definitely_ should not have asked Arthur to come with him, but it was much too late to change any of that. Guilt overcomes him as he tries to catch onto him one last time. “Wait - Arthur!” His dad is roughly pulling open the passenger car door, holding his son where he is. Alfred doesn’t know what to say to make this better, he doesn’t think there are any words that can. So he says, “I’m sorry!” The desperation on Arthur’s face bleeds away into sorrow, enough to match Alfred’s own apologetic expression.

Arthur’s father spares him a look, colder than the air around them. “Go home, lad.” He then proceeds to shove Arthur in the car, but Arthur’s hand steadies himself on the doorframe and his pretty green eyes loose their sorrow and harden with seriousness, sincerity.

“Alfred,” he says, pushing against the weight of his father. “Listen to me.” Alfred nods, not knowing what to do, but knowing he couldn’t do anything against Arthur’s father, knowing that this is the end. Arthur’s eyes are solemn, pained and teary. His heart aches to go and comfort him, but he’s rooted in the sand. “None of this is real,” he says before he lets himself be pushed in.

The world feels like it’s spinning. The world _is_ spinning, he knows from science class, but directly around him, he feels like it’s spinning. The air is too thin to breathe and his heart is conflicted, not knowing whether to stop or to speed up, but it’s making his stomach nauseous and the spinning doesn’t help, because he’s getting dizzy and he doesn’t know if he remembers how to breathe. Arthur’s pretty green eyes are staring at him through the windshield, and all he can croak out is a quiet, “What?”

Arthur’s father fixes him with a stern glower and tells him, “You are in so much trouble, young man,” before climbing back into his car, the car with Arthur in it, and pulling away.

“Wait!” Alfred calls because he _needs to know_. His feet are still stuck in the sand, his limbs frozen from some emotion rather than the chill and it takes him too long to remember how to move them, but he still calls, “Wait!” after the car, already a mile away. He fumbles into a run, but it is in vain because the taillights have long disappeared from view.

His feet come to a halt and he’s left with his own thoughts in the bitter winter air.

 

   Somehow he makes it home. He climbs into his room tiredly and barely processes that his light is on. He thought he had turned it off, but evidently….

Matthew is on his bed. He so doesn’t want to talk right now, but Matthew looks pretty mad and probably won’t let him off the hook so easily.

He waits until Alfred has taken off his shoes and sat on the bed with him before he demands, “Do you like watching the world burn?” He has his arms crossed and there’s a frown on his face that doesn’t suit him at all and it’s all Alfred’s fault that it’s there. When had he become such a  trouble maker? “ _Twice_ in one week, Al! You’ve snuck out twice and I couldn’t save you from getting caught the first time, that was your own idiocy, but do you know how much effort it took to cover you? Mom was ready to barge into your room, but I stopped her, and you have _so_ much to explain, Alfred F. Jones, I can’t even-”

Alfred sighs and drags a hand down his face. “Look,” he says complacently. “Can we talk later? I’m tired.”

“ _You’re_ tired? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he snaps and instantly regrets it because of the look on his brother’s face. Matthew doesn’t deserve this, he’s done nothing but be nice and a shoulder to lean on. “Sorry. I’m sorry. But, _please_ , Mattie. Later.”

Matthew regards him with a poker face, collected and not looking as tired as he probably feels. He seems to be searching for something by the way his eyes roam up and down his figure, but whatever he’s looking for is found and he sighs, exhausted and frustrated, and Alfred feels another wave of guilt. “Fine,” he says. “But you’re going to tell me sometime. I don’t care if I have to wait until after the new year, and you owe me a big favor in the future, but fine - later.” Alfred nearly collapses in relief and says his thanks a million times over, but Matthew just rolls his eyes and pulls him in for a hug. “When will you stop being such a nuisance?”

Alfred huffs, but there’s a small smile on his face. “When you stop being the best brother ever.”

“That’s never happening.”

“Then I guess I’ll never stop.”

Matthew groans and pushes Alfred a little, almost sending him straight off the bed, but he smiles at him before he leaves with a, “Good night.” Alfred doesn’t know what he would do without him.

He quickly gets dressed in pajamas, turns off his light, and crawls underneath his covers, but he doesn’t think he’ll sleep. His mind, no matter how fatigued he is, won’t stop thinking.

His lips won’t stop tingling. It’s a fuzzy feeling, one that spreads into his fingers and makes his heart skip a beat every once and awhile. Kissing Arthur had been better than he could have ever imagined and it was a memory he wished he would never forget. His heart ached to be able to do it again, just once more, to feel that high again, like he would never come down from the clouds. Even if it was just a press of lips, it offered a feeling so much harder to express than the feeling of Arthur's hand in his. It was happiness, happiness like when Betsy would jump on him and lick all over his face, or happiness when he caught the right wave at the right time and he skimmed the blue sky-like water, or happiness when he beat the next level of _Invasion of the Curroes_. Except it was _more_ than that, so much more brighter and lighter and all-encompassing. If he thought that maybe he could get lost and drown in Arthur's eyes, then he could be found and have life breathed back into him by Arthur’s kiss.

How could the night turn from something so happy to something so… broken?

He felt broken. “None of this is real.” What did that mean? Did that mean that Arthur never really felt anything for him? That their friendship was a farce? That the kiss didn’t matter? But then why had he bothered to start a friendship at all? To hold his hand and sit with him? If that was real (is real?), then what wasn't (isn’t)?

It hurt to think that Arthur didn’t mean it.

* * *

 

   It had been a long interview, a long day, but it was all worth it. Tino could feel the documentary coming together under his fingertips as he prepared the last questions he would ask of Matthieu Bonnefoy. Bonnefoy, for his part, still retained his superb pokerface and cool composition.

Tino shifted in his seat, ignoring the somber feeling in the air. Alfred Jones had a lot of reasons to be distrustful of people, but by some miracle, he wasn’t. Tino couldn’t fathom why, and neither could Bonnefoy, but he knew he had to get the atmosphere lighter again somehow. He flipped through his cards and picked an adequate question: “On Alfred Jones’s behalf, would you say he was happy in the town of New Haven?”

Bonnefoy took in a big breath and exhaled loudly, almost like a sigh, but there was too much thought behind it. “Yes,” he said. “He was happy, a little anxious to leave and see the world, but he was about as happy as anybody is living in a small town where they grew up. He hadn’t known anything else, _couldn’t_ know anything else, so by default he was happy.”

“Do you think, if the show had lasted, he would have still been happy?”

There was a long silence as Bonnefoy reflected. His poker face had fallen into a frown, pensive and unsure. “Unless big changes were made,” he said after awhile, “no, I don’t think so.” His arms crossed over his chest and he tilted his head a little. “Even if he had been allowed to be gay, he still wouldn’t have been able to leave.” Tino nodded in understanding; Honda Productions had done their best to try and instill travelling fears in Jones’s mind, but it hadn’t worked out too well. “Staying in New Haven wouldn’t have made him happy,” Bonnefoy finished, head tilting back into an upright position.

“Is he happy now?” It was his last question, a question he was sure going to end the documentary. Alfred Jones had made himself to be a private man, understandably, and many of his old so-called fans were interested to know that the boy they had watched grow up or had grown up with was doing fine.

Bonnefoy regards him with slow eyes before a calming and sure smile spreads itself across his lips. He’s confident in his next words, no ounce of insincerity or unrest in them. “He’s as happy as he can be. And for Alfred, that’s really happy.”

Tino smiled back warmly.

* * *

 

   Christmas had been a quiet affair. Quiet because Alfred was still technically grounded. He still got presents, sure, but they had been withheld for the time being; all but one. After the day was over, his grounding could either be lifted to probation or reinforced by a longer sentencing. After the day was over, it would be a new year, for better or worse.

The one Christmas present being redeemed was not by his choice, but his mother’s and Magnus’s mother’s choice. For this one day, New Year’s Eve, Alfred was allowed to go to Mr. Im’s arcade and, under Mr. Im and Yong Soo’s supervision, to try and mend his friendship with Magnus. The arcade is empty except for them, Mr. Im having closed it to the public for the holiday, but had given them permission to be here. He was over sitting at the counter, glancing up from a novel every once and awhile. Alfred was, by no means, excited to be where he is, standing in front of _Dance Dance Revolution_. Yong Soo had picked the game as “friendly competition” and expected he and Magnus play it and try to maintain a civil conversation as they did so.

It sounds like a new form of torture if he’s ever heard of one.

He lets Magnus pick the song because he doesn’t feel like putting in the effort. He hadn’t felt like putting much effort into anything lately, not since the night of Winter Formal. He had tried not to think about it much; he is, afterall, the president of not thinking about things. It hurts to much to think about, so he pushes his more melancholic thoughts to the side and steps up onto the platform with Magnus.

As the console starts to count down, Yong Soo states the topic of discussion. “During the song, we will have a nice chat about-” he waits for the count down to say “Go!” before shouting “-super powers!”

“I’ve always thought I have them,” Magnus says without missing a beat, quite literally. He’s moving on time to the music, getting _Perfect!_ s and _Amazing!_ s across the board. “Super strength, super dashing looks….” He turns his head from the screen briefly to glance over at Alfred who is struggling to keep up, but also not lagging too far behind so as to get _Boo_ s while still having a few _Miss_ s. “What about you, Al?”

It’s an olive branch and Alfred tries his best to not let it mess him up too badly. He waits a few steps to think of an answer though, because he isn’t sure what superpower he would truly want anyway. He reads comics, sure, is his mom’s ‘little hero,’ but answering generically like Magnus did seemed cheap. “Teleportation,” he says. That’s what he wishes he could do - go anywhere in the world at any given moment. “To teleport out of here,” he continues and thinks about teleporting to a mall, or go cart racing, or New York City, or - or England.

“Really,” Magnus asks sharply and this time Alfred really does mess up because he hadn’t been expecting that. “You hate me that much now?”

He pauses, not caring about the game, and just stops to stare at Magnus who has also stopped. “I didn’t mean it against you,” he says. Yong Soo appears next to them, ready to intervene, a mask of apprehensiveness overtaking his features. “I meant that I don’t want to stay in New Haven forever. I would have said flying, but I figured teleporting would be faster.”

“Oh,” Magnus says, releasing a breath Alfred hadn’t realized he was holding, shoulders sagging. He looked humbled, sheepish. “Sorry.”

“Whatever,” he replies with a sigh. He turns to Yong Soo. “What’s the next topic?”

Yong Soo still looks unsure, but he backs away from them and resumes his post next to the console screen, the crisis having been averted. “Uh, well,” he mumbles. “Pick a song, Al, and I’ll tell you.”

Neither of them had really won the last round, stopping in the middle would do that, but Magnus had done marginally better. Alfred picks a random song and the countdown begins.

“Winter weather,” Yong Soo shouts when the song starts.

“It’s cold,” Alfred says obviously as his feet begin to work.

“You have to bundle up,” Magnus adds.

“A wool-blend peacoat at Burlington’s is under sixty bucks,” Yong Soo says helpfully. At least it would have been if there was actually at Burlington Coat Factory in New Haven. Alfred only knows of its existence because of a girl who had been showing off her new coat last winter. So why Yong Soo has this information, he doesn’t know, and he isn’t about to ask.

He struggles for a reply and settles on, “Why get a new coat when you can stay inside?” Their game isn’t going too bad, in fact it’s going better than it had been before, and he thinks for a moment that maybe the day is going to go well.

Magnus adds a little flare to the next move. “You can drink hot chocolate while the heater is on.” Alfred thinks back a few days ago when he had had the chance to do just that.

Yong Soo laughs a little as the song is coming to an end. “That’s true. Did you know Nestle Hot Cocoa Mix in a canister is only $4.98?” He punctuates this with a smile. “I want thirty!”

The music ends and he stares at his friend. “Do you realize you do that,” he asks when he’s sure he has his attention.

“Do what,” Yong Soo asks with a small chuckle.

“Talk like a commercial.” The smile wipes off Yong Soo’s face in an instant and Alfred almost feels guilty, but his curiosity can’t be put to rest. He glances at Magnus uncertainly. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t think any of us are _really_ going to go buy hot chocolate mix any time soon.” Yong Soo is growing nervous and he doesn’t understand why, it is a simple question with probably a simple answer.

Magnus is the one to answer though. “He’s just trying to be helpful, Al.”

“I guess,” he says placatingly, but he can’t help but wonder who Yong Soo is trying to help. Something isn’t clicking in his mind and he can’t quite grasp what, if it’s anything-

_None of this is real._

-at all.

The thought is unbidden and hits him like a train. His breath is stolen and it takes half a minute to realize that Magnus has chosen another song, half a minute more to partake in the next conversation, if he partakes in it at all because his mind has stopped comprehending anything that doesn’t have to do with reality.

Talking like a commercial isn’t really helpful. _Being_ in a commercial is.

 

   His mind is in a haze for the rest of the arcade trip, for the walk home, he’s having a hard time cementing himself to the ground. He doesn’t know if he’s already flown off.

He doesn’t hesitate walking past the garbage until he realizes the garbage had no reason for being taken out. It isn’t trash day, it isn’t even close because of the holiday, and he hadn’t taken it out. He pivots his body to stare at the black bag and sighs lugubriously at it before making his way over and forcing it open. He reaches his hand inside, feels around the gross feeling trash until his hand comes into contact with his scrapbook and he pulls it out. It’s covered in filth again and he swallows thickly, impulsively opening it up just a peek because he needs _something_ to bring him back down to Earth.

The page he opens to is the one of articles and obituaries. He silently reads the words to himself because-

_None of this is real._

The book slips through his fingers, landing back on the trash bag. It closed during the fall, and he stares at it with his jaw clenched. Then he takes a mechanical step away, and another and another until he’s halfway up his driveway.

But he stops because how _dare_ it? He shuts his eyes tight as his heart picks up speed and the fire rises from within somewhere by his stomach. How _dare_ it not be real? He turns back, anger burning behind his opened eyes, glaring at the book resting peacefully on the bag of garbage where it belongs.

His steps back towards it are hurried and he doesn’t pause as he swings out a leg and kicks the bag over, spilling trash over the street. Used paper towels and tissues scatter with the wind, empty wrappers crumpled into balls rolling away, old and molding food splattering against the asphalt. He’s made a mess and he doesn’t care. The book landed a foot away from the curb and he snatches it up, flipping the cover open.

A picture of him on his father’s lap stares back at him, both of them smiling brightly at the camera, Betsy at their feet, a Christmas tree in the background; around them is littered with wrapping paper. Longing swirls in his gut, but the aggravation is stronger because he’s finally come back down to Earth, but the sky is crashing down around him. His hand reaches for the top of the page and, without second guessing himself, tears the paper in half, the glued on picture ripping with it. There’s a nauseous feeling in his stomach, but he keeps going; he tears the next page and the page after that. Half torn papers are fluttering around him, pictures ripped to pieces, piling up at his feet.

His vision has gone white, or maybe red, and tunneled in at the book. His hands keep moving and he doesn’t want them to stop; he wants to release his frustration and his anger and he feels like he’s going a little bit crazy, grunting and sobbing and tearing and ripping until every page has been wrenched free of the binding, or at the very least half of it. He thinks he can hear his name being called, but the pulsing of his heart in his ears is too loud to really tell.

He brings his knee up and the book down over it, breaking the spine and forcing the book into two with a shout. A strong set of arms wrap themselves around him, making him waste no time into trying to break free.

“Alfred,” Mr. Franklin’s voice says in his ear. He tries harder to get loose. “Alfred, calm down. What’s wrong?”

“Let go of me!” His legs try their best to kick at Mr. Franklin’s, arms struggling to pull himself free, body throwing itself away from the one behind him. “Let go!” His request is granted and he stumbles forward, caught off guard, but regains his balance and whirls to glare at his offender.

Next to Mr. Franklin is his mother, standing horrified and looking around at the mess he had created. Her eyes are watery, but Alfred’s remain dry, but with his anger dissipating quickly, he feels like crying. He takes in a ragged breath and doesn’t say anything as he he tosses the two halves of the cover down onto the asphalt before walking inside the house, past Matthew in the family room who starts to say something, and into his room, slamming the door behind him.

He stays there, behind the door, breathing heavily, his actions replaying in his mind and his eyes are getting hot. His book of memories, his book of his father, mutilated and broken by his hands, but none of that really matters. Nothing matters.

_None of this is real._

The dam breaks and tears rush over. He sobs and doubles over, a hand coming up to try to muffle the sounds, but they’re too loud for his ears. He slides down the door, shudders raking up and down his body violently as he sobs and gasps for breath into his knees.

 

   It’s nearing midnight. He hasn’t been able to sleep because his thoughts drifted off and didn’t stop and now he’s wondering about England. England, so far away, and yet where Arthur is going. A place Alfred could only ever dream about until he made the effort to leave, to go, but… could he? He knows he wants to, he knows people leave, but he still didn’t _really_ know what is outside of New Haven. He had never been outside. There really could be nothing out there, nothing except emptiness. Things could only exist in New Haven and he would have no idea about it. But is that really existing, or is it something else?

If nothing is real, is he?

There’s a knock at his door, which he ignores. But it comes again along with a soft call of, “Al? Are you asleep? Can I come in?” from Matthew. He almost ignores him again, but he thinks to himself that Matthew won’t lie to him, and gives him the okay.

He sits up in his bed where he had been cocooned in blankets and greets his brother with a gruff, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Matthew parrots as he sits down as well. “What’s up?”

He lifts his eyes from his hands in his lap up to Matthew’s. They’re filled with concern and Alfred swallows. “I snuck out,” he says and he isn’t sure he meant to say it, but it’s been said and there’s no going back now. “I snuck out to go see Arthur.” Matthew doesn’t look surprised and he wonders if maybe he had known all along. “He’s gone to England now. I went to see him one last time to tell him….” He trails off and looks away. He may have admitted his infatuation to Arthur, but he can’t bring himself to confide that in anybody else, not even Matthew. “To tell him that I’ll miss him.” He looks back at Matthew.

Matthew nods, looking like he understands. “And did you get to tell him?”

“Yeah.” He pauses and thinks if he really wants to ask. But Matthew won’t (can’t) lie to him, so he asks. “He said something, when his dad found us.” He holds eye contact, feeling that if he loses it, he’ll lose his courage. “He said none of this is real. Why would he say that?”

A silence settles over the room, palpable, uncomfortably heavy. They stare at each other, the unease on Matthew’s face growing more evident as the seconds pass.

“I don’t know, Alfred,” he says, voice shaking a little. The hands that had been resting by his side come together, rubbing against each other. Alfred tracks their movements with his eyes. “Of course it’s all real.”

Alfred’s face goes blank, mimicking his mind, his emotions, his being because there isn’t anything that could possibly remedy the turmoil he feels. He lies back down and uses the blankets to cover his face. He wonders that, if now he can’t see anything, if anything exists outside the covers. If things blink out of reality when he isn’t looking. If, when he opens his eyes, he sees reality at all.

“Al?”

“Night, Mattie.”

He hears him sigh, feels him get up. “Happy New Year,” Matthew says, voice travelling across the room. “Good night.”

 

   He gets a few hours of fitful sleep. Around six, he gives up entirely and strains his ears to hear any signs of life outside. There aren’t.

He feels restless, itching to do something, anything to prove himself wrong. This is real, it has to be. How can it not be? He sees, he feels, he hears, he smells, he tastes - by all means, he can do everything to prove reality, but he can’t wrap his head around the illusion that has been created in place of that reality. Things haven’t felt real in some time and he’s been too busy ignoring it to notice.

By seven, he’s dressed and out the door with an apple in his hand. He closes the door quietly behind him and walks off aimlessly. The trash has been picked up outside, no traces of it or his book in sight, and he can’t feel a thing.

There’s no ashen taste in his mouth as he bites into the apple, just sweetness. That has to be real. No cars pass him by, everybody still inside sleeping after their New Year’s party. He doesn’t know if that’s real. The air is cold, a freezing wind ripping straight through his layers of jackets. That’s real. A dog barks in the distance, but he can’t see it. It might be real.

He goes on like this, walking through town. Time is passing slowly, quickly; time isn’t passing at all, time has passed already. The temperature rises a few degrees and people make their way out of their houses. He settles himself on a park bench and watches them. (Bike, flowers, car.)

And watches them. (Bike, flowers, car. Bike, flowers, car.)

Watches them. (Bike flowers car, bike flowers car, bike flowers car….)

He picks himself up and moves on, bumping into someone who apologizes, who uses his name. The next time he bumps into someone, it is purposeful. They also apologize, they also use his name.

He sits in front of the ice rink and watches them. (Child, dog, couple,)

And watches them. (child, dog, couple, child, dog, couple, child, do….)

Watches them. (child dog couple child dog couple child dog coup-)

When he walks into the bookstore on impulse, there is no one there. He finds that some of the books in the display case are hollow. He passes by the movie theatre and notices the movies playing haven’t changed since August. It doesn’t appear that anybody has been inside since then either, if the dust on the ticket booth counter is anything to go by.

He finds a place to sit in the public library and watches as the same three people pick up and put back the same three books. He pretends to read Ernest Hemingway. Three new people come in some time later, the other three leave, and they pick up and put back the same three books. He pretends to read Mark Twain.

There is no show playing at the cultural arts center. He can’t remember if there ever had been a show playing there at any time in his life. The door is locked to a convenience store despite a neon sign saying ‘OPEN’ and no one is inside. The shelves look half-stocked. He purposefully bumps into another person who again apologizes and again uses his name.

His day goes on. Time passes slowly, quickly, not at all, and all at once.

 

   When he goes home, the sun has set. He walks home in the dark, the lights in the house are on. He does not hesitate to enter, does not fear consequences, does not feel much of anything beyond unchecked turmoil bleeding into frustration. Though maybe he isn’t frustrated anymore, just mad.

The only reason he came home was for confirmation. Otherwise, he would have already hijacked a car or boat and hightailed it out into the great unknown world. But he needs to talk to Matthew, needs to be proven right, needs to at least say good-bye.

Matthew does not greet him. His mother does. He looks at her and does not see a mother; maybe she never was. If people in this town are as repetitive as he had seen, if they are as fake as they appear, then there’s no reason for his mother to be different. But she does her best to keep up the facade that she is a mother, looking disgruntled and worried all in one go, standing before him in the entry way.

“Alfred,” she exhales sharply. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick!” Mr. Franklin, Magnus, and Yong Soo materialize over her shoulder, all looking as equally concerned as his mom. She goes to reach out for a hug, but he brushes her off.

“Is Matthew here,” he asks. _Home_ is on his lips, but he refuses to call this place home any longer.

Her worry switches to confusion in a second. “Yes,” she says uncertainly. “In his room.”

He holds eye contact for a moment longer before moving past all of them without a second glance.

Magnus, however, doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. “Seriously,” he scoffs. “We’re all out here organizing a search party, but you only want to see the one person who doesn’t care enough.” Alfred pauses and whirls around to glare at him, deeply offended. As far as he is concerned, Matthew is the only one who cares about him - cares about his interests and his feelings, trusts him even when he acts outside his routine, doesn’t give him shit about not being a good friend. Magnus glares back, unapologetic. “You know what Matthew said? He said that he wouldn’t go searching for you because it didn't matter. He would rather see you frozen with hypothermia then haul his ass out of bed.”

“Fuck you, Magnus.”

He doesn’t have time for this. He doesn’t want to deal with this. But apparently he isn’t going to be let go that easily. There isn’t a way to make them understand why they were wrong - it _wouldn’t_ have mattered if they had went looking for him, with or without Matthew, because nothing could have stopped him. Nothing could have kept him from this dawning realization, nothing could keep him from becoming angry and overwhelmed by not _knowing_ what is and what isn’t. He is unconcerned with keeping up the dream of being all right, of not letting anything bother him. He’s tired of not thinking, of ignoring, of giving up and giving in. He isn’t going to lose another battle, even if he dies or is erased from existence first, he’s going to leave this constructed world knowing the truth.

For his part, Magnus looks shaken, possibly not expecting those words, if any words at all. His mother does not hesitate, though, and her shrill words cut through the family room with resonation. “Alfred F. Jones, watch your language.” He turns his head to meet her eyes and her body language screams with authority. Oh, how he wants to undermine that authority. So he does.

“I would tell you the same thing,” he snaps, “except you have Mr. Franklin for that.”

His mother is baffled, speechless. Mr. Franklin isn’t looking at him. “How….” she trails off.  Her voice is quiet, breathy, barely there, and there’s an embarrassed flush donning her features. It takes her a moment too long to collect herself and even then she doesn’t seem to pick up all the pieces. “How dare you speak to me like that?” Her eyebrows draw together in rage. “I am your mother!”

He almost snips back, “Are you?” but it’s overpowered by Mr. Franklin’s voice saying something indistinguishable from his mother’s continued rant, or Yong Soo chastising him for speaking to his mother that way, or Magnus going off about about his bad attitude. Their voices clash at varying degrees, the volume raising, saying a lot of different things, but never saying anything of value. It’s too loud - though, only an echo compared to his thoughts from the night before - as they speak all at once, fighting to be heard. He doesn’t hear any of them, only to staccato call behind him.

“Al?” Alfred swivels around, back now to his mother, facing Matthew. Matthew who looks unsure, anxious, fidgeting in his place where he stands by the hallway to their rooms. He’s watching the scene with trepidation, paying extra attention to him in the middle of it, worried over how he is, what he’s thinking. But all Alfred is thinking about is how Matthew lied to him the night before.

He sucks in a shallow breath, observing Matthew’s apprehensive frame. “It’s all true, isn’t it,” he says finally through his teeth. There’s a tremor in his voice, filled with unspoken emotion. “Or - _not_ . Because everything… _every_ thing is a lie.” And isn’t that the truth? He’s been lied to some many times he never realized just how many until now. Everyone he knew lied to him.

Matthew takes a step forward and opens his mouth to - to deny, maybe, or apologize, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He isn’t done. “No - shut up! Just shut up!” It’s deathly silent and finally he feels like he’s in control of something. He takes in a shuddering breath and reaches a trembling hand up to push away some hair in his face. “I was out there all day, Matthew, watching the world - _my_ world - go around like a machine, like clockwork. The bike, the flowers, the car, the bike the flowers the car - over and over again without end. I ran myself into people to see if they knew my name. They did. I’d never met these people and they knew my name.

“Why me? Why, when everybody around me seems to follow a set script, why do I feel like I’m the only one who isn’t?” His voice cracks. There are tears collecting in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them drop. He can’t break, he can’t, because if he does there’s a chance he won’t be put back together. His shuddering breaths and pounding heart are already pushing against the spiderweb fractures on the surface of his mind, threatening to shatter it, shatter whatever sanity he had left. “I feel like I’m going _crazy_ , Matthew. I feel like I’m the only one who knows that something’s wrong. When everything isn’t real….” His voice trails off because this is the hardest part. This is the thing he can’t wrap his head around. His entire life, he had never had a reason to doubt, but so suddenly his world was turned on his head. If none of this is real, “Am I? Am I real?”

Matthew looks petrified, his own eyes watery, standing still like he can’t remember what moving is. There’s so much regret and pain in his eyes that Alfred almost has to look away, but he can’t. He’s frozen too.

His mother moves, off to the side, stepping into his space, arms reaching out to encircle him. “Oh, yes,” she’s saying, “of course, Al-” The feeling comes back into his arms and he pushes her away, cutting her off.

“Don’t touch me!” He feels the dam break and a tear slide down his cheek; it’s wiped away in an instant. His mother looks hurt, troubled by his behavior. It isn’t convincing enough for him though, not anymore. She’s hurt him. She’s hurt him by smothering him, controlling him, not grieving enough, not allowing him to grieve, keeping secrets, _sighing_ and ending things before he’s ready, telling him he isn’t ready, saying that she raised him better without realizing that this is how she raised him. She’s hurt him and he’s hurt her. And it isn’t fair, but his hurting is too persistent to leave her be. “You’ve kept me here my entire life,” he says, not accusatory, just a fact. More tears escape from his eyes, burning hot but his anger is evaporating them faster than his sadness can make them. “Trapped and caged here.” She flinches; Mr. Franklin puts a hand on her shoulder and Alfred’s jaw clenches, but he ignores it. His tears, which had seemed abundant, dry up. He presses on. “Whenever I ask to leave, to have an adventure, you say no. Is there nothing out there? Is that why you keep me? I want to go places, Mom - places I’ve never been before, everywhere possible. You’ve been outside New Haven, but I’ve never-”

“Where do you want to go, huh,” Mr. Franklin’s harshly interrupts. He’s standing in front of his mother protectively, like Alfred might hurt her, his imposing build shielding her. “Where is it you want to go so badly?” There’s poison in his tone, like he can’t believe any place is better than here.

“England,” he blurts out. “I want to go to England and see Big Ben and the Queen and people I would have never seen if I had stayed here.” People who don’t look at the same three books for hours, people who show up for work, people who don’t walk in circles, people who are real. People who have never been to New Haven, had never _heard_ of New Haven, who had only ever known a different country’s culture and buildings and history. Someplace far away with at least one person who he knew, who could show him around.

“You just want to go because Arthur’s there.” Magnus has his arms crossed, looking wholly unamused. Bored. At least Yong Soo seems to be affected, glancing around nervously.

He huffs in frustration, molten anger sluggishly moving around in his bloodstream. “What does that matter?” His arms fling out for emphasis, heartrate picking up. “It’s somewhere far, far away from here and there’s somebody there who I know likes me.” His jaw shuts with a click because he hadn’t meant to use those particular words, and he tries not to let it show that his own words had an affect on him, but nobody seems to notice anyway.

Magnus just rolls his eyes and looks at him like he was scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “Say what you want, Alfred, but Arthur isn’t….” As he trails off, his face goes pale. He shakes his head a little and looks away, like he’s disgusted, but not with Alfred. It’s more like he’s disgusted with himself, which doesn’t make sense.

“Arthur isn’t what?” He can’t let Magnus not finish; there’s a truth there somewhere and he’s going to get even if he has to fish for it. Magnus was argumentative by nature… at least he thinks he is. Maybe his personality is fake, too; maybe the things people say around him aren’t what they really want to say. Maybe his friends, the friends he knew, weren’t actually how he knew them to be.

Yong Soo steps forward, hands up to pose no threat. “I think,” he starts hesitantly. Alfred gives him his attention, wanting to know. “I think what Magnus is trying to say is that-” His voice catches awkwardly like he had had something to say and thought better of it. Face paling a little too, he looks back at Magnus. Their eyes meet and an understanding is shared between them that Alfred wants to understand, but it isn’t something he can. But they look at each other and understand. Yong Soo slowly returns his eyes to his and searches for the words he needs. “That… this is wrong,” he says eventually, slowly, lowly. “This isn’t right. We’re supposed to be your best friends, but we haven’t been acting like it.”

“We’ve been total dicks,” Magnus says, complexion now back to normal. He’s looking at the floor, but he’s sincere. “We keep saying we’re being supportive, but we’ve been pushing you away.”

Yong Soo nods and claps a hand on Magnus’s back. “We’re sorry. Really.”

Alfred is at a loss. He doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know if he _can_ think. This conversation has taken a shift, too quickly for him to really grasp, and wonders if reality is distorting, if maybe it’s meant to. Because, as he looks around at the people around him, he doesn’t think he would be able to comprehend a reality without them. His mother is speaking again, worry present in her voice, speaking about the future or something of the like. He doesn’t understand what she’s saying, his mind processing everything too fast or too slow or somewhere in between; either way, he hasn’t got a clue as to what to do. Her voice drifts away into Mr. Franklin’s saying that things were going to get better. Things had to get better if Alfred had anything to do about it, but he doesn’t know how.

If he were to leave, where would he go? If there really was nothing outside of New Haven, if there was no England, what then? What would he do then?

He locks eyes with Matthew whose lip is trembling. Matthew who can’t truly lie to him, Matthew who he thought wouldn’t, but had. Matthew whom he trusts. When his mother and Mr. Franklin seem to meet the end of their words, he says his, maintaining eye contact with the boy he calls brother. “You rub your hands together.”

He’s met with puzzlement. “What?” Matthew’s eyebrows are knitted together, his voice but a croak.

“When you lie,” he starts over, licking his lips, “you rub your hands together.” There’s a nervous pit at the bottom of his stomach, wide and gaping. He’s placed his life in Matthew’s hands without thinking twice. Being impulsive had been his thing lately, so he trusts his gut no matter how shaken it is. Because it might be better if he kept on ignoring this one thing, it might make his life easier, especially if this is real. Because he might have stumbled across the one secret to the universe that he shouldn’t have found and if this was the way back into ignorance, he would take it. What else can he do? What else is there for him?

Matthew, however, isn’t so certain in this decision. “Why are you telling me this?” The quiver in his voice is prominent; he doesn’t want the responsibility he’s been given, a full leap of faith in his honesty. Behind his glasses, his eyes hold steady despite the rest of his body shaking with the strength of his slightly panicked breathing.

Alfred believes in him, trusts him. Whatever decision Matthew would make, he would accept. Truth or ignorance. “I’m giving you the chance to lie to me.” He closes his eyes, inhales deeply and exhales just as much before opening his eyes again, staring dead straight into Matthew’s. “Is this real?”

There is a silence like no other he has experienced before. It does not feel heavy, it does not spread, it simply _is_. And in this silence, he finds that calm once more and clings to it like it’s a lifeline. This may be the last time he feels it, the last time it claims him as its own. If only for this moment, in this silence, he will feel at ease once more knowing that, as in the times before he had felt it, his life would change. His shoulders sag, the tension flooding from his body, rippling away into the silence like it never existed.

The silence feels real. The calmness does, too.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Matthew says, shaking his head. He looks repulsed by the idea and Alfred knows he made the right choice. “I can’t hurt you like this anymore. I love you too much.” His eyes hold all the sincerity in the world, promising him the truth, justice, peace at last. The love in them molds around the heartbreak also present, encapsulating it, strangling it until they blend together and Alfred can’t tell anymore what is love and what is heartbreak.

He takes a rattling breath, eyes holding onto Alfred’s. The hands at his side do not move. “My name is Matthieu Bonnefoy.” _Matthew Williams_. “I was born in Montreal-” _Toronto_. “-to Fran çois and Jeanne Bonnefoy.” _Justin and Hazel Williams_. “And when I was three years old, I auditioned and was cast to act as your cousin. I am an actor. This is a TV show, Alfred.”

The world stops and starts spinning. The calmness has disintegrated in his grasp and the silence has become deafening. He stares shellshocked at the person before him, a person he doesn’t think he knows. He turns and stares at the one who calls herself Mom only to find she’s looking away, sobbing into her hands. The man next to her isn’t looking at him, just holds the woman in his arms. The two boys, who had been “friends” are staring back at him, guilt radiating from their beings. He can’t seem to remember if he knows how to breath, but he’s gasping.

This truth, if it is truth, does not feel real.

Before him, Matthew - Matthieu - is shaking, trying to keep himself together. Alfred feels like he’s falling apart as he asks, “Are you lying?”

“No.” There is no hesitation. There are no subconscious movements. This is truth. “I’m not. I’m so sorry.” Sorry. What does sorry mean? How can an apology cover this? An apology does not fix reality. “If you want,” he continues, “I can take you out. Right now. They can’t keep you here.” Who are They? Are They the ones who did this to him? They must be, They put him here, They… They did this. Oh, God, why did They do this? “Do you want me to show you the way out?”

Matthieu’s eyes are steady, unwavering. Alfred can leave. He said he can. He wants to.

“Yes,” he says in a breath. He steels his emotions and stands as tall and as confidently as he can and repeats himself with conviction. “Yes.”

* * *

 

   “What makes the end of a story,” Tino asked nobody, everybody, whoever who takes time out of their day to watch this documentary. “Is it when the characters reach a state of peace unachievable at any other point in the narrative? Is it when the protagonist reaches their goal, after the many hardships they have faced?

“Alfred F. Jones was no storybook character, but a real person whose early life sparked controversial topics and ignited a revolution over a human's right to privacy. _The Alfred F. Jones Show_ was one of a kind, never to be seen again, living on in the memory of its viewers. The intricacies of the full story may never be known, but the end came, resulting in the highest viewership ratings in the show’s history. The end, for some, was inevitable, and for the man himself was non-negotiable. Many viewers rioted over the emotional upheaval of the last episode, but for the happiest boy on television, Alfred F. Jones couldn’t have found his happy ending without it.

“What is he doing now, you may ask? Well, that’s none of our business.”


End file.
